


The Mysterious Incident of Shadowhearst Manor

by Of_Princes_and_Savages



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Ghosts, Haunted Houses, Horror, I think that's everyone relevant?, Rumbelle Revelry 2016, Supernatural - Freeform, The DO is a demonic presence, This turned out waaaay more complicated than expected, seance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-22 10:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8283205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Of_Princes_and_Savages/pseuds/Of_Princes_and_Savages
Summary: In 1891, Mr. Gold purchases an estate outside the village of Storybrooke. Through his son Neal, he gradually becomes acquainted with his lovely neighbor Miss Rose in the dilapidated mansion next-door. But when a tragedy occurs at the manor, Gold finds that Miss Rose is not what she appears to be, and nothing makes sense anymore.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moonlight91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlight91/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Rumbelle Revelry to Moonlight91! (To whom I hope is pleased with this very long gift that my Muse decided would be a good idea at the time. It is literally the most complicated thing I have ever wrote in a short period of time.)
> 
> Prompt: Doll, Séance, Not Of This World.

During an unexpected April rainshower, stuck in the Nolan cottage, Ruby Lucas told Neal and Emma the scariest story they had ever heard. And it really happened, right on the next estate through the woods three miles away.

Neal had thought that their closest neighbors were Mrs. Mills and her daughters. They showed up unexpected one afternoon and stayed for luncheon, though Neal hadn't liked it and neither had Papa. Miss Regina could be nice, but if her mother and sister were close by she was very sullen and prickly. Mrs. Mills talked nice, but she didn't smile with her dark eyes and she scared Neal. Her eldest daughter, Zelena, didn't look like Regina or Mrs. Mills, with red hair and her blue eyes, and she also scared Neal worse than Mrs. Mills because she was always grinning at Papa and leaning too close to him. But Ruby said they lived on the other side of Storybrooke, and that their closest neighbors were Mr. Midas and his daughter.

Unless, of course, they counted the ghosts in Shadowhearst Manor as their neighbors, three short miles from the door of Avonlea House, through the woods bordered both estates, and up on a hill, a dark and ominous figure gazing down on the overgrown garden surrounded by hedges that had grown wild in the half century it had been abandoned...after the former earl had murdered everyone in the dead of the night.

Nearly fifty years ago, the Earl of Huntsford had lived in that house. He had recently inherited the title from his father, and brought his bride there a few years earlier. The earl and his bride lived quietly until strange things began to happen. Maids were attacked by invisible forces, people were pushed down the stairs, and the under-butler was found dead, his heart stabbed through. And it was the earl, driven mad by a curse he incurred from a vengeful gypsy he scorned, that was responsible for it all, and in a fit of bloodlust he murdered everyone, including his wife, flung out the window like a ragdoll. The police had found the earl dead in his armchair, a bullet through his brain. Whether it was cowardly suicide or the curse claiming it's final victim, no one knew...but his spirit still roams the halls, still thirsting for blood, still murderous. And with his death, the line died, or perhaps no one wanted claim the mansion where blood stained the floors and screams still hung in the air?

Mrs. Nolan chided Ruby for telling such a dreadful tale, but she was too late to sway Neal or her daughter. Ruby had to help her grandmother with the groceries delivered that day, but Emma and Neal wasted no time in trotting west through the woods, hoping to catch a glimpse of the haunted mansion.

Emma spotted it first, and they stood on the edge of the woods, gaping at the dilapidated house.

It was easily three times the size of Avonlea House, four stories with dark tiles on the roof, mildew staining the limestone exterior and the windows covered by thick dark drapes, forbidding anyone from peering inside. It sat at the top of a hill, looking, the grass grown thick and unkempt, thorny vines creeping up the sides. A short walk from the back of the house was the garden, with untrimmed hedges as Ruby described, and Neal and Emma soon found themselves creeping towards the arched veranda, with peeling white paint, to peek inside the forbidden space.

Neal went first, although only because he took a few rushed paces ahead of Emma. Chivalry, Papa said, meant pulling out chairs and letting a lady walk ahead of you through an open door. It did not necessarily mean women were helpless, and Emma was more likely to slay a dragon than need a knight to save her. He peered around the corner of the hedges, feeling Emma press against his back, and took a careful look around.

The garden was just as unkempt as the lawns. Weeds grew wild in the flowerbeds, choking out whatever plants hadn't gone feral to survive. The roses were budding a deep blood red, fighting to stay alive, and dandelions poked up through the cracked stone pathways in yellow blossoms and fluffy white puffs. There was a statue of a half-dressed woman on a pedestal, once white, now a filthy gray streaked with black, and stone benches places here and there that may have once been ideal for a tea party. A dry fountain sat in the middle of the fountain, an enormous three-tiered affair topped with a sculpture of another unclothed lady, aiming a bow as if she'd just sent an arrow into flight.

And sitting on the rim of the empty fountain was a woman.

She was reading a book, her head bowed over the pages so that Neal and Emma couldn't see her face, but she seemed young. Her hair was a glossy sort of chestnut, tied up in a knot, and she wore a walking dress that was a deep gold color with long sleeves, the skirt probably brushing her toes if she stood up. And then, both of them having edged out from around the hedge corner, but neither speaking, Emma finally chirped, "Excuse me, miss?"

The woman looked up from her reading. Her skin was pale, her lashes dark, and she had the bluest of blue eyes. She was a bit younger than Regina, maybe, and she smiled very prettily at them. "Hello, may I help you?"

Emma pointed to the looming mansion behind them. "Do you live there? In the haunted house? Nobody's supposed to live there."

The woman looked back at the house, and then towards them again, laughing softly. "Oh they're not? Well you should have told us that."

"Us? Do you live here with your family?" Neal asked, edging forwards.

"Of course. Who else should I live with? A litter of kittens?" she laughed again, folding her hands on her book. "Truthfully, I spend most of my time here in the garden. I know it isn't much to look at but the roses are very lovely and it's peaceful. My papa isn't very good at managing our estate, so I don't like spending more time indoors than I have to."

That made sense. "I know what you mean," Neal nodded. "I like to be outside too. You don't have to be quiet outside, um, but I'll be quiet now since you like the quiet."

"Well thank you, but you are my guests, correct? Feel free to make yourselves at home."

Emma thought for a moment, then nodded. "She's right. Thank you, miss. I'm Emma, and this is Neal. We live next door."

"Oh, that's lovely," she smiled beautifully again, with her blue eyes and everything. "My name is Isobel Rose, how do you do?"

* * *

It was common knowledge that the old Shadowhearst place was haunted. Ruby knew that, but Emma and Neal were younger than her wisened eleven years, and they were new to the area.

She didn't want to go to the haunted house, but her friends had tugged her over to the edge of the property intending to introduce her to somebody named Miss Rose.

"Please Ruby, you'll like Miss Rose! She's nice!" Emma said, tugging on her hand.

"Are you both mad? That's the Murder House! It's _haunted_!"

"Miss Rose lives there and she's alright," Neal added. "It just looks bad because her papa wastes their money and they can't hire a gardener. She's not even a little bloody."

Blood was not the point, Granny had always said, _'Stay away from that house, it's evil!'_ and so Ruby had. She wasn't entirely certain if the ghosts would come out of the house, but she was not going to risk it either.

"No! I'm going home!" she declared, spinning on her heel with full intentions of stomping back to Avonlea House.

"Emma? Neal? Is that you out there?" a woman's voice called from the garden.

Ruby turned to see a small, slender woman standing just outside the garden. She wasn't bloody, like Neal said. Actually, she was well-dressed, wearing an pretty walking dress in a shade of deep gold, and her auburn hair pinned up neatly. Neal waved to the young woman, who gave a little wave back.

"That's Miss Rose," he said to Ruby, then called out; "Hello Miss Rose! This is our friend Ruby!"

Miss Rose smiled at them. That was unique, because Ruby had worked with Granny in a house for a family that looked on her in her well-worn dress like she'd dumped a chamber pot over her head. Mr. Gold was odd himself because he spoke to his staff like people instead of magic brooms and pots that cleaned and cooked on command, but well-dressed young ladies did not smile at urchins like Ruby.

Then she said, "Good day Ruby, how do you?"

It was curiosity that drew Ruby forward after that. Up close, Miss Rose didn't even mind stepping aside for Emma to dart into the garden. She was as polite a hostess as if they had turned up for tea instead of strolling into the garden like the ragamuffin servant girl Ruby was. And then, when Emma started weeding out the flower bed around the roses, she bent down and helped, dirtying her fine gloves and the knees of her skirts.

By the time they left, Ruby decided she quite liked the lady of the house.

Neal and Emma got away to the garden more often than Ruby did, spending their time tidying up as spring bore on and the plants burst into full bloom. While Ruby was very suspicious about Shadowhearst Manor still, she couldn't deny that Miss Rose was a pleasant woman. And there was a boy named August that started coming around to the garden, about ten years old, who said he worked there. Ruby figured he was a hall boy, because while he said his father had been a stableman, the stables were in poor condition.

August had that sort of red hair that darkened over time, Ruby discerned, and brown eyes and a splash of freckles on his face. He was dressed in working clothes with a dark cap on his head, and he always said that his father was older and couldn't keep up like he used to if they asked about the stables.

One thing August and Ruby agreed on was a reluctance to go near Shadowhearst Manor. He said that the master was terrifying, and Ruby believed him. It could have been the curse at work influencing the master of the house, or maybe he was just one of those employers. Astrid, one of the maids at Avonlea House, had worked for a woman who was like that. Her former mistress had acted like it was Astrid's duty to do whatever she said, and woe betide anyone who contradicted her or made a mistake.

Again, Emma and Neal weren't so cautious. One day while Miss Rose was helping Ruby with her letters, scratching them out in the dirt, Emma and Neal had snuck over to Shadowhearst and tried to peek through the windows. Most of the rooms were blocked by dark curtains, but they'd found one that was sort of parted. They saw a maid dusting the furniture and a dark-skinned man in a livery walk by. It proved that people lived in Shadowhearst Manor, so Ruby supposed that most of her fears were unfounded.

One day, though, they had stayed a little too long at the garden, as Miss Rose had been telling a story about the Greek god Hades and his wife Persephone, and their unusual courtship. It was a fascinating tale but it was interrupted by a horse's hooves and Emma's father calling her name.

"Emma!" Mr. Nolan called. "Neal? Ruby! Emma!"

"We're over here Daddy!" Emma shouted back, hurting Ruby's ear.

Mr. Nolan trotted up, sliding off his horse just outside the entrance. He took his hat off when he saw Miss Rose, (Mr. Nolan had very good manners for a stableman,) and he bobbed his head politely to her.

"Hello miss," he greeted, putting a hand on Emma when she dashed up to hug him. "I didn't know anyone had moved into the manor."

Miss Rose smiled, folding her hands on her lap. "You aren't the only one to think that, Mr. Nolan. It seems we are the best kept secret in the county."

Emma tugged on her father's sleeve. "We've seen inside the house, she really lives there. Ruby said it was a murder house but people live inside, so it must not be haunted anymore."

Mr. Nolan pet his daughter's blonde hair, nodding along. David Nolan was a practical sort, not giving much thought into ghost stories. He had heard Mrs. Lucas talk about the horrors that happened inside Shadowhearst Mansion all those years ago, but he doubted it was actually haunted. What did surprise him was the state of disrepair the house was in, and it looked like the only maintenance done in the gardens had been by the hands of the children and their hostess.

Neal stood up and brushed down his trousers, introducing Emma's father to their friend.

"Mr. Nolan, this is Miss Rose. Miss Rose, Mr. Nolan is our stableman. And this is August, his dad is the stableman here."

"Hello," August said, with a little wave.

Ruby realized it was late in the afternoon, far later than they usually stayed. Mr. Nolan had probably been sent out to find them, and oh goodness! Granny was going to be furious! Neal was lucky because his father would probably only scold him a little. Ruby would be lucky if she were sentenced to scrubbing pots and pans without her supper...

While the children began realizing they were in more than a little trouble, David Nolan eyed the mansion again, lurking up the hill fifty yards away.

Miss Rose looked up at the home, too, and then turned back to him. "We aren't a very wealthy household, Mr. Nolan. No doubt you've noticed the state of the gardens?"

Her statement was just a little pointed, and Nolan felt sheepish. It was undoubtedly embarrassing for a such a well-bred woman as Miss Rose to admit to her father or guardian mismanaging the estate's money. He had just left the Spencer estate, the old baronet Sir Albert having run it into the ground through bad investments. It made perfect sense to him, and it would have been insulting to say more.

And, if he didn't bring the children home soon, someone-Mrs. Lucas, Mary-Margaret, or Mr. Gold himself,-was going to have his head.


	2. Chapter 2

Avonlea House was hardly a sprawling manor. Some hundred years ago, it was half-built outside of Storybrooke Village as a hunting lodge before the original builder lost his fortune, and the newly-knighted Sir Matthew purchased the property to set up a fine little country estate for himself. It was made of stone, two stories and an attic, with large square windows, and a white-painted front door that you found by following a long gravel path from the front gates all the way at the entrance. The nearest town was Storybrooke, a quaint little village mostly of shepherds and farmers. No one had lived in Avonlea House for five years, but whoever the former owners were, they left behind a lot of furniture and a lot more books in the grand library on the second floor overlooking the rose gardens.

When Mr. Gold had purchased the estate, everything had been cold and dead in the grip of winter. His son had explored every inch of Avonlea House from top to bottom, and then again, fit to burst when spring finally came and he could explore the grounds at long last. Most of the household was glad for spring too...

Neal was an active nine-year-old boy, a little on the small side but healthy nonetheless. He had Gold's brown eyes, and dark wavy hair like Milah. His hair and a bit of confidence were all he seemed to inherit from Milah, or perhaps it was a case of nature versus nurture as she'd run off when Neal was scarcely a year old.

Gold couldn't say he missed her as a person, and in hindsight they had never been a good match. Milah wanted adventure and to travel, while Gold wanted a snug home and family. Milah had only been excited about having Neal until she couldn't fit into her favorite dress anymore and started gaining weight. Gold would forgive her for hating the act of birthing a seven pound baby, but after a while it felt more like Milah just wanted to hate _him_. It was _his_ fault Neal cried during the day, it was _his_ fault the nanny quit, it was _his_ fault that she was unhappy. No matter what he did...

Eventually, Milah ran off with a handsome rake, leaving behind a note and withdrawing a tidy sum. Gold had been a little paranoid about his money, especially in those days when his money was new and he didn't quite have a fortune yet, and hadn't give Milah full access to their accounts. Thank god. The note wasn't even a proper note, it just read, **"I'm leaving London, and I shall never return."** Gold would have forgiven his former wife for _that_ , but that she could leave Neal as easily as forgetting a coat was inexcusable.

He'd really become a "disagreeable old bastard", in the words of a former associate, since that day. Not that he had ever murdered a man, but it was established that no one double-crossed Gold, even if he came from the gutters in Scotland. Especially then, actually, because Gold knew what it was to come from nothing and knew what work it took to keep what he had.

This ethic made him unpopular with the wealthy, old money families that inundated London. His fortune reliably attracted at least one mother every season eager to push her daughter towards rich prospects, the female equivalent of their fortune-hunting brothers off in New York stalking an heiress. Gold knew damn well his money was the only appeal to these women. He was too short, seven and forty years old, his teeth were crooked and so was his nose, his smooth-shaven face all sharp angles and his brown hair was starting to gray, not to mention it was long enough to brush his collar, framing his face rather than the fashionably short-coiffed styles the dashing young men wore.

He snubbed them all without discretion, but there was also one mother more determined or foolish than the rest that thought a man could only be won with a fine figure and a fair face.

Gold had once been one of those men, but after Milah and, one very ill-fated courtship with Cora before that, it sort of soured the romance of, well, romance. He'd be quite content here in Avonlea House by himself when Neal went off to school next year, tending to his business via the post, and perhaps having to make a few trips to London a year. (Assuming he got the "honorable" Mrs. Mills to stop showing up at his elbow in the village.) His household was a small staff, headed by the cook, Mrs. Lucas. Her granddaughter, Ruby, was a playmate for Neal over the winter when she didn't have to work in the kitchens. Sometimes in the kitchens, too, because Gold was determined not to raise a fop like the brats of his London neighbors and didn't mind Neal getting his hands dirty.

Neal said he didn't mind washing pans or peeling vegetables in the kitchen because he and Ruby raced to see who get theirs done first, and Mrs. Lucas usually had a snack for them when all the work was finished. Neal was such a good, honest boy most people doubted that he came from Gold at all. Another reason to enjoy the solitude in the country away from London; Gossiping neighbors at all sides.

In February, the stableman arrived with his wife, infant son, and vivacious eight-year-old daughter Emma, who immediately befriended Neal. Between her and Ruby, Neal learned to climb trees and skip rocks, and though no one knew which was responsible for this little incident, skin a rabbit and roast it with rosemary. They found the little campfire and Mrs. Nolan reported some missing salt, and a small pile of bones picked clean. Everyone except for Mrs. Nolan was fine with it as long as the children spoke to either Mr. Nolan or the groundskeeper first, and Mrs. Lucas was just glad they cleaned and skinned it themselves.

Granted, at the moment, everyone was a little upset as the children hadn't been seen since after lunch and it was growing dark now. When Nolan finally returned with the wayward trio, each adult grabbed their respective progeny and whisked them away for a dressing-down and to reassure themselves that they were unhurt. Emma would likely get off the lightest of the three, and Ruby should count herself lucky to see the light of day for a week when Mrs. Lucas was through. Gold could often be accused of spoiling his son, but Neal certain knew Gold's indulgences had their limits.

So it was no surprise that, scrubbed clean and standing there at the foot of the stairs, Neal looked properly shamefaced while Gold stood with his hands folded over his cane. They'd been there for over a minute at a stalemate until the father finally asked: "Have you anything to say?"

"'m sorry," Neal muttered, looking down at his clean boots. "We didn't mean to scare anyone Papa, we just lost track of time. It was a mistake."

"I understand that son, but you should have told me where you were if you left the grounds. What was I supposed to think if Mr. Nolan hadn't heard you lot playing in that old garden next door?"

"I am sorry."

Gold sighed, closing his eyes. Everything had worked out, true, and no harm was done. He was more worried about what could have happened than he was over what had happened. And all three children were quite shame-faced about the whole affair. He was just about to say it was alright, and why don't they go in to dinner now, when Neal added:

"Miss Rose was telling a _really_ good story, and we wanted to hear the end before we came home."

Opening his eyes, Gold looked at his son with a furrowed brow. "Who is Miss Rose?"

"Miss Isobel Rose. She lives next door in the manor."

No one lives in that manor, or at least Gold thought so. He'd heard bits of the sordid history, of course. One of the evenings that Mrs. Mills had invited her family to dinner over, Zelena had prattled on about the subject for three quarters of an hour. She repeated herself often and romanticized several aspects, leading Gold to suspect the girl simply wanted to impress. As far as he knew, no one wanted to touch the property because of the atrocities that occurred there. There was a gravesite at the back of the property because the churchyard simply hadn't had enough room, and many of the servants were buried there with the Last Count and Countess of Shadowhearst.

"Someone actually lives in that house?"

"It surprised Ruby too," Neal nodded, coming down the stairs at last. "But Miss Rose lives there with her father, and Emma and I peeked in a window and saw a maid and another servant. Oh, and August works there too with his father. It doesn't look like anyone lives there, but that's because Miss Rose's papa is terrible with money. He can't afford a gardener, so we tidy up the roses. They're almost ready to bloom too, you should see them Papa, they're beautiful!"

Gold nodded quietly. "Well, perhaps tomorrow you could show me the garden, and introduce me to Miss Rose."

Neal beamed. "Oh that's a wonderful idea Papa! You'll like her, she's very nice. And she's smart too. She helps us with letters and sums and she knows the best stories!"

Dinner progressed with his son extolling the virtues of the wonderful Miss Rose, and Gold listening along dutifully, all while wondering who would live in such a notorious house...

* * *

The next morning after breakfast, Gold collected his hat and coat. Given that the Shadowhearst estate was three miles away and through the woods, he supposed he would be riding a horse. He'd rather not set up the carriage just to pop over for a visit, even though the thumping and bumping of riding in a saddle would play hell with his ankle. Neal was happy to clamber up and sit with Gold on the chestnut gelding with a fair-colored mane named Phillipe as they started out, trotting off through the woods to the manor.

Upon first sight off Shadowhearst Manor, Gold's heart stuttered in his chest. It looked like a nightmare on a hill, dark and brooding, covered in thorny vines, fog hovering above the ground and the sky overcast.

Phillipe snorted, shying back a step. Gold could not blame the horse, but Neal was sliding off and hurrying across the untamed lawn to the bushy hedges hiding the garden from view.

"Miss Rose! Are you there?"

Gold dismounted and tied Phillipe to a tree before crossing the lawn himself. It felt like eyes were on him from the darkened windows of the old mansion, though he couldn't see anyone. He was a coward, he knew, but something was unmistakably eerie about this estate...

"Papa!" Neal called, breaking Gold out his reverie.

He walked into the garden, which was in a severe state of disrepair. As Neal had said, the flower beds had been tended to recently and the roses were in bloom. Deep, richly colored red petals like red wine or fresh blood, shimmering with diamond drops of dew. As darkly alluring as the roses were...they couldn't hold a candle to Miss Rose.

She stood with her back to him, looking at Neal, dressed in a rather old-fashioned golden walking dress. Her soft, auburn hair was pinned up, and when she turned, Gold's heart stuttered again in the face of her startlingly blue eyes and parted candy-pink lips. She was perhaps twenty, petite and pale, blessed with the sort of face that made men do all sorts of foolish things to win her favor.

Gold would quite happily settle for remembering how to say _good morning_ without a stutter.

Neal, quite oblivious to the cat griping his father's tongue, introduced them immediately: "Miss Rose, this is my papa. We live next door at Avonlea House."

"How do you do, Mr. Gold?" the angelic young woman said, with a sunny smile.

Gold remembered to remove his hat then, clearing his throat. "Ah, yes, tolerably well, miss. Ahem. My son tells me that he and his friends have been playing in your garden."

"Oh, yes," Miss Rose nodded, then paused. "I do hope they aren't in too much trouble for coming home late yesterday, I'm sorry about that."

"I'm sure you are, Miss Rose, and so are they," Gold noticed his son looking sheepishly down at the toes of his little shoes. "But no harm done. You'll forgive me, I wasn't aware that we had neighbors. Have you lived here long?"

"Not for very long, no. When did you buy Avonlea House? I thought it was abandoned."

"We arrived in December. Not ideal weather for calling on new neighbors."

"The winters here can be rather harsh, yes. But not always. Spring is nice, but the summer is lovely."

Neal seemed to be bored with his father and neighbor conversing about the weather and seasons. He started weeding, and decided that before they left the garden he should filch two roses to try and sweeten Mrs. Nolan and Mrs. Lucas's tempers towards his friends.

His father, on the other hand, was attempting to maintain an illusion of composure. He was aware that the weather was always a suitable topic of discussion in polite company...but waxing lyrical about the joys of autumn's cooler weather could only carry so far. Quite by accident, after talking about the reds and oranges the leaves turned in autumn, Gold mentioned that he preferred to sit with a good book anyway.

 ** _Book_ ** seemed to be a magic word.

Miss Rose's blue eye lit up and she bit her lower lip through a wide, white grin. "I do love books. The classics, especially. I confess I have a great weakness for Jane Austen novels. My mother had a first edition copy of Emma I must have read a hundred times."

"I was never very taken by Miss Woodhouse, myself. She seemed rather flighty and self-absorbed," Gold admitted.

"Oh but that's part of her charm!" Miss Rose insisted. "She's a realistic character! She is very flighty and self-absorbed, but she isn't a bad person at all! Jane Austen writes women in a very believable way. I adored the Dashwood sisters, and Elizabeth is such an _amazing_ young woman. And in Persuasion-" she stopped short, blushing. "I'm sorry, I'm just babbling away. How rude of me."

Gold found it to be a very charming sort of babble, and smiled despite himself.

"I don't think so. Personally I found Persuasion to be enjoyable because it didn't feature a charming debutante, but a _woman's_ point of view."

Miss Rose's smile returned brilliantly. "Exactly!"

Books were a passionate subject for Miss Rose, and Gold was pleased to have something common with his lovely neighbor. The talked for some time before Gold realized that the sun had broken through the clouds and risen quite high in the sky. Consulting his pocket watch, he found it was almost noon. Goodness. They had been here for hours.

Neal was occupied with a beetle scuttling over his hands and up his arms, the knees of his trousers soiled and dirt smudging his nose. At least he had kept himself entertained.  
They parted ways and Gold brought Neal back to Avonlea House for their luncheon. Neal had two roses he'd plucked from the wild garden in his hands, undoubtedly for his friends' jailers, and a part of Gold admired his son's idea. While he was a good boy, never let it be said that Neal Gold didn't have a bit of Gold's deviousness, albeit for much more innocent purposes than a hostile takeover of a rival business.

"Isn't Miss Rose nice, Papa?" he asked.

"Mm? Oh, yes, yes, very nice."

"So...you're not upset that we play in her garden, are you?"

"No, not as long as you don't cause any trouble for her."

"Oh don't worry, we like Miss Rose, so we're always on our best behavior. Did you meet August? He plays with us sometimes. He's okay but he lies about stuff a lot, not like real lies, just sort of, um, tall tales? Yes. Tall tales. He said that he and his father used to work on a whaling ship and that they fell overboard and had to live inside the mouth of a whale for a week, but I didn't believe that because how could you cook in a whale's mouth? You'd burn its tongue and then the whale would swallow you and then you'd be eaten..."

Neal was content to describe the impossibilities in August's many stories as they trotted back to Avonlea House, while Gold was... _distracted_...

* * *

As April faded into a pleasant May, Neal and Emma, and Ruby, continued visiting the garden. They were always home well before dark, though now that their families knew where they were, Mr. Nolan would check in on them from time to time.

Mrs. Lucas, who had lived in Storybrooke all her sixty years on this Earth, was still reluctant, however. She had sternly told her granddaughter not to go near the house, and while Ruby was known to ignore some of her grandmother's advice, something about that stuck. She never left the garden when they played at Shadowhearst, and fretted when Emma and Neal went to peek in the windows. She wasn't alone, as Miss Rose and August tried to keep them away too.

"The master isn't a very nice man," August said quietly, one day, looking nervously up at the dark windows. "When milady went into the village when she first came here, he burned her books before she came back as a punishment. Then he told my Papa that if he every hooked up the carriage for her without his permission, he'd beat me. That's why she keeps books in the stables, they're safe in there."

Mr. Gold had overheard that. While the children went over to play, Gold came by to visit with Miss Rose herself. Books and poems were a consistent topic of conversation. If her father had truly kept her trapped on the estate, it would explain why no one had seen her in the village, and why she never invited them inside. While Miss Rose was very well read, she seemed limited in her scope. She wasn't familiar with more modern authors, and while she had read Jane Eyre, she thought it was written by Currer Bell.

"You mean it was written by a woman?" Miss Rose gasped. "Oh! I _knew_ Jane was too sensible to be written by a man, I should have known that!"

In a word, she was adorable. Simply adorable. Miss Rose was very sweet and well-bred, but at the same time, she was nothing like the posh little chits that lined the streets of London. She had wits and she was passionate about learning. Perhaps if another man were fond of a young lady he'd present her with a flower, but Gold had presented Miss Rose with a copy of A Study in Scarlet and she flung herself into his arms.

Gold would've liked to return the hug, but he froze like a statue in shock. Miss Rose pulled back, quite embarrassed, but the smile didn't leave her face for quite a while...and Gold had never felt more like a bashful schoolboy in his life.

For a man who had all but sworn romance off, Gold was utterly infatuated.

There was something odd about Miss Rose though. Sometimes she seemed equally fond of him, and sometimes she acted very distant. Gold surmised that her life inside Shadowhearst Manor, while not haunted, was not a happy one. Her clothes were all rather old-fashioned, perhaps they had belonged to her mother. Miss Rose had mentioned in passing that her mother was gone, though whether that meant she had died or abandoned them, Gold couldn't say.

But if the only books she truly had were hidden in the stable, and she were forbidden from going to town or the stableman's son would be beaten, what sort of monster was her father? Miss Rose didn't want to talk about it, always changing the subject. Gold's own father had been an unmitigated bastard, so he could understand not wanting to discuss it.  
At some point, the two of them began going for walks while Neal and his friends played. It could be considered morbid to walk by a cemetery many of these times, but, graveyards were never very scary in the daylight, especially when no one he knew was buried there.

The gravesite had been where the four Earls of Huntsford, and their families, were buried was as unkempt as the rest of the lawns, inside a wrought iron fence. The stones were all weathered and popping up through the grass like grisly surprises. At some point the little wooden gate barring the entrance had fallen off the hinges, and tufts of grass poked up from between the wooden planks, indicating how long it had been down. It reeked of neglect and sadness, but Miss Rose seemed almost wistful when she looked at it.

"I used to read there," she said, pointing into the cemetery. "There's a little bench, but it's not there anymore. I'm not sure what happened to it."

Gold stood beside her, looking at the abandoned site. She was very quiet, and Gold wondered how inappropriate it would be to hold her hand.

"How long have you lived here?" he asked instead.

Miss Rose smiled wanly, looking at him with blue eyes that were suddenly unfathomable. "Too long, I should think. But here I shall remain."

"Surely your father doesn't intend to keep you locked away in the country forever."

"My father," she said, with just a hint of resentment. "Has never been a sensible man. He'll do whatever he thinks is best, which usually benefits himself. No one else."

Gold hesitated, then offered her his arm. "I understand."

She studied him curiously, biting her lower lip. "Do you, Mr. Gold?"

"My father abandoned me because he couldn't be bothered with the responsibility. I only met him once, when my business was first starting to succeed. He came around with his hand out, trying to shame me into making him comfortable in his old age, he said."

"What did you do?"

"I said I would call the police if he ever came near me again. Once he realized I wouldn't play his game, he called me foul names and stormed off. I don't doubt he's still alive. Lord knows his innards are well-pickled with all that drinking he did."

Miss Rose giggled, apparently charmed by his rudeness towards Malcolm Gold. She was an odd little dear, wasn't she? His neighbor put her hand on his arm and they walked away from the cemetery, with her chirping:

"You're a man of many layers, Mr. Gold. I like that."

Gold felt something warm in his chest expanding, and while he was unfamiliar with the emotion, it felt suspiciously wonderful...


	3. Chapter 3

Gold hadn't courted a woman since Milah, so he wasn't sure that was even what he and Miss Rose were doing. However, it was rather nice to have her on his arm as they walked and talked about whatever caught her fancy. She was lonely, he imagined, a bright young thing isolated here. So he sometimes brought her a newspaper and she devoured it the way a man dying of thirsty would lust for a pitcher of water. There was little Miss Rose loved more than a story, or a new tidbit of information. She even seemed enthralled when he told her about his business, asking financial questions that grown men he worked with didn't think about.

Was it possible to fall in love with a woman when she asked about stocks and interest?

While Gold had never pressed the issue of her father, or why she never asked them inside, he was starting to wonder if he should. Because while he never dared to presume anything, it would be rather difficult to properly court Miss Rose if her father never gave his blessing. Not that Mr. Rose sounded like the type, but perhaps (and Gold was loathe to think this,) once he realized how well-off a suitor he was, he'd change his tune.

Money tended to bring out "better" sides of a man, so long as he was paid enough.

For the time being, Gold was happy to simply visit with his lovely neighbor in her garden. Neal and his little friends were there playing with the little stable boy August almost every day now, and Miss Rose was very fond of them. "Shadowhearst was much too quiet before they came along, I'm glad," she'd said once, with that gentle smile like a sunbeam piercing the clouds. "They're lovely children."

Today, on this sunny, overwarm sort of day in May, Neal, Emma, and August were playing with Emma's ragdoll, Henry. Supposedly Emma made it, but Gold suspected Mrs. Nolan did the lion's share of the work. Because while the button eyes were lopsided, everything else about her little doll, from his patchwork clothes and dark yarn hair, was perfectly done. It hardly mattered as Emma was still quite fond of Henry and the doll engaged in many adventures in the garden with the children as witnesses.

Miss Rose and he had wandered away, until they were seated on a bench near the tree line between both properties. You could see all of Shadowhearst from here, and just a glimpse of the cemetery, an ominous flash of white-gray that was a marble angel statue.

His companion sat with her hands folded on her lap, playing with her fingers. She wore that dark gold walking dress she favored, with the little bow at the small of her back and the high collar, white gloves on her dainty hands and black leather shoes on her feet. Gold imagined that a potato sack would look wonderful on Miss Rose, but he did wonder on occasion why she wore the old-fashioned clothes. He must have been staring longer than...well staring was never very appropriate, was it? At any rate, she smiled at him with those blue eyes and asked, "Is there something on my face, Mr. Gold?"

"Ah...no, no, of course not. Forgive me."

Miss Rose laughed. "You are a very sweet man, Mr. Gold."

"I believe you're the first person to think so in my life, Miss Rose."

"Nonsense," she clucked. "You're a _wonderful_ man. You're kind, polite, intelligent, and of course, very sweet."

"Your opinion is your own, of course, but I think it's best we agree to disagree."

"That's precisely what I mean! You let me have my own opinion, without condescension, or empty flattery. You treat me fairly, as if I were anyone and not just some young lady with a pretty face."

"You do have a pretty face." Gold blurted, before he could help it.

Miss Rose stared at him, her mouth in a small "o" shape and her blue eyes wide. She swallowed, then, running her tongue over her lips and inhaling deeply, shaking her head like she disagreed with his statement, only she said, "I'm sorry Mr. Gold, I-I'm so sorry."

Gold then did something stupid; He reached out and cupped the curve of her cheek in his gloved hand, meaning to... _do something_ , surely, but he forgot what as the chill clinging to her pale skin radiated through his gloves. And her eyes fluttered shut with a soft gasp, tickling his wrist, as she leaned into his touch. Oh...

His other hand came up without permission and cradled her jaw in his hands. "Oh," he scarcely recognized his voice, breathy and thin. "You're freezing sweetheart..."

The endearment slid off his tongue without permission, but it was hardly that false flattery she spoke of earlier. Miss Rose's eyes opened and she looked into his like it was the first time they'd ever seen each other, and suddenly they were much too close. And much too far away.

One cold little hand threaded through the hair at his nape, pulling him closer and their noses bumped awkwardly before they could kiss properly. But oh, did they learn quickly. She was still so cold he drew her close, feeling fiercely protective of this amazing little woman, but her lips grew warm and slippery beneath his. She tasted crisp and sharp,-an autumn breeze, new fallen snow, cool rain,-melting into him as he suckled gently on her upper lip.

And...

"No! No!" Miss Rose pushed him back, wide-eyed and horrified. "No! I'm so sorry Mr. Gold, I-I'm so, so sorry, I can't-We-Oh god, no!"

She sprinted across the overgrown lawn quick as a rabbit and twice as frightened, leaving Gold behind with a cracked heart and a great deal of confused hurt in her wake.

Then he heard the screams, one of them belonging to his son.

* * *

While August trotted off to fetch their wayward ball, on the other side of the hedges, Neal and Emma stood peering up at the ominous manor looming over them whenever they played in the garden. Being rather curious young children, Neal and Emma often wondered what the inside of the battered mansion looked like. The glimpse they caught from time-to-time from between curtains on the ground floor wasn't quite enough to satisfy them anymore.

There was one window, especially, that was odd. Rather than a curtain, it was blocked with planks of wood nailed over it from the inside, glass broken and jagged. It faced the gardens, from the top floor, and August didn't know what had caused it and Miss Rose wouldn't say. It was a rather warm day, this one, and Emma wasn't sure why Mr. Gold and Miss Rose wandered away from the shade in the garden. Lately they had walked away a lot, and Ruby giggled whenever she noticed. She insisted that they were planning to elope, but Emma wasn't entirely sure what that meant, and she never did ask.

She found it very silly to walk away from the nice shady garden and walk in the sun, though. Emma was very thirsty and so was Neal. So, when Neal stood up and started eyeing the servants entrance on the other end of the house from the garden, she wasn't surprised when he said, "Do you think the cook would let us have a glass of water?"

"Maybe if we ask nicely," she agreed, picking Henry up and dusting off his little blue suit made from one of her too-small dresses. "Let's go see."

They started off and where three-quarters of the way there when August caught up to them, falling into step alongside them with a curious look on his face. "Where are we going?"

"We're going to ask for a glass of water," Neal replied. "Is the cook very nice? Would she mind?"

August didn't answer, he just grabbed for their wrists and tugged them backwards.

"You can't go in there!"

They two children from Avonlea House wriggled free of his cold hands. Emma thought about kicking him in the shins, but the look of terror on August's pale face stopped her. He stared up at the house and didn't move an inch when Neal started forward again, wringing his hands nervously.

"Please come back! You don't know what's in there, it's not safe!" he pleaded. "Don't go!"

"Don't worry August," Neal smiled over his shoulder. "We'll be back before you know it."

"We'll be really quick," Emma agreed, catching up with Neal as he moved around the corner of the brick wall. Inside the little yard, there were cracked pavers on the ground and broken, rotting wooden crates stacked by the doors. The kitchen door at Avonlea House was much tidier than this, Emma thought, moving closer to Neal. She thought she heard August calling behind them, but she couldn't make out what his words were. It sounded like he was calling for Miss Rose.

Neal stopped at the back door. The paint was peeling off the wood, and the brassy handle was tarnished dull brown.

Maybe August was on to something...

Neal looked at her and they had an unspoken conversation. Because, on the one hand, something very eerie was afoot here. But, that just made both children more curious to see what lay on the other side of that old door.

"The worst they can say is no," she said, hugging her doll to her chest. "Let's just pop in and get out, yeah?"

Her friend nodded, and he brushed his fingers against the handle. Only it swung open at the lightest contact of his hand with a moaning creak, the hinges unoiled for years from the sounds of it, dust motes swirling as light shone in from behind them. Their shadows stretched across the floor, and Emma squinted inside the darkened room.

Neal put his hand on Emma's elbow, since her hands were busy holding Henry. Instead of a kitchen, there was a hallway in front of them. That wasn't unusual, Emma figured. Though it did make it a bit more complicated to peek in the kitchens and run...

Slowly, the two children inched inside. They got over the threshold, and creeped far enough inside that they passed the rectangle of light spilling in from the open door behind them. Emma shifted Henry under one arm so she could squeeze Neal's hand tighter, and she felt his palms were really sweaty. Or were that hers? It was hard to tell. The hall way was dim and so dusty that both Astrid and Ella could spend all day cleaning it before it was presentable. Had the maid not wanted to clean the hallway?

Just before they got to the doorway of the kitchens, they both stopped and looked at each other again. The air was musty and dank, and Emma's stomach was flipping like a fish on dry land. Neal licked his lips and held up his other hand, with three fingers that counted out one-two-three-

Emma and Neal leaned around the corner, taking stock the kitchen, fully prepared to sprint back out the door.

The kitchen, Emma noted with very little necessary observational powers, was surprisingly dustless. There was no food, no heat from the stoves, in fact, it cool inside. There was a portly woman scrubbing a cloth against the counter with her back to them, dressed in a plain working dress tinted light purple and a white apron, a white cap over her gray hair. She turned a bit and froze as she saw them, just like Emma and Neal were very still standing in the doorway, the cloth falling from her grip.

She looked around the kitchen, and that prompted Emma to do the same while Neal said, "Um...hello."

"You...what are you doing in here? You don't belong in here!" she blinked twice, as if she couldn't believe her eyes.

"Um, right, s-so, we'll be going. Pleased to meet you ma'am." Neal was ever-so-polite, and ordinarily Emma might've said something about that, except she was still looking around the kitchen and two things happened at once.

The first was that the temperature dropped suddenly, chills racing up her spine. That was not the circumstance that had Emma's hazel eyes widening and her grip on Henry going loose in shock. "Neal..."

Neal turned towards Emma. Her face was pale and her eyes were large, locked onto the floor near the woman's feet.

The white tiles of the kitchen were stained with large red smears.

Blood red.

 _Blood smeared floors_.

The woman, possibly the cook, didn't seem to notice the blood. She looked at them with terror in her eyes and whispered, _"Run!"_

* * *

August had run to find Miss Rose as soon as Emma and Neal went inside the house. This was bad, this was very bad.

But before he even got halfway to the other end of the big old manor, he heard high-pitched screams and rushed back to the servant's entrance to find Neal zipping out followed closely by Emma. They'd almost gotten away when Emma's doll slipped from her grasp and fell on the house side of the door's threshold.

August knew Emma was a brave girl, but when she turned to snatch up Henry, he wished she were a coward. It only took a split second for her to pause, but that was more than enough for her to lose her advantage.

Emma was trying to run, her doll securely in her arms. August even thought she was safe--

But then she fell, the back of her coat caught in a strong grip of her assailant. She fell down and hit her chin on the pavers on the ground, and was being dragged back inside by her ankles when Neal and August rushed back for her. August was quicker though, his legs longer, and he did the only thing he could think of; lunging forward and knocking their attacker back inside the house. The door slammed shut behind him, the hallway plunging into darkness, and that was the end of August.

Neal pulled Emma to her feet. Her chin was bleeding and her palms and knees were scraped, tears welling up in her eyes and Henry filthy, but she looked at him and the door and then lunged for the door. She pulled on it but it wouldn't open and Neal and she had the same idea.

The ran screaming back to Avonlea House.

Gold saw them dart down the path, but they didn't hear him calling and he was too slow to catch up as he limped after them. They didn't stop at all until they almost knocked over the groundskeeper, Leroy, actually.

They did knock over Astrid, who, for some reason their hysterical young minds didn't quite register, was walking with Leroy in the woods. The maid wasn't the most clever, but she was very kind and knew instantly that something was very wrong with the children and tried to calm them down.

"Hey, hey, hey! What's wrong? Are you hurt?" she asked, smoothing back Emma's hair and looking at her split chin. "Oh, Emma, Emma honey, what happened?"

Emma gestured wildly back the way they came. "I-it got him! It got him! He was pulled back in the house and he's gone! August is gone!"

"Okay, calm down, sister," Leroy said, placing a big, rough hand on both of their shoulders. He wasn't a very tall man, so he didn't have to bend down to look at them. "Who's August?"

Neal swallowed, trying to string a few words together. "H-he's our friend, he lives at Shadowhearst. A-and we went to ask for a drink, in the kitchens, an' there was a lady in there-"

"There was blood on the floors!"

"And she told us to run, and then this-"

"It was big and dark and it looked like a man!"

"A big man! A huge man! And he had a knife, and we ran out the door but he caught Emma-"

"I tripped going back for Henry, or he caught my coat, I don't-"

"August tackled him-"

"He saved me!"

"And the man pulled him back inside and the door slammed shut-"

"It slammed shut all on its own and it wouldn't open again!"

"It wouldn't open again!"

Leroy and Astrid looked at each other. Quite obviously, Astrid took both their hands and led them back to Avonlea House while Leroy hurried along the path the children had worn to Shadowhearst, coming across Mr. Gold on his way.

"Did Neal and his friends pass by you? What happened?" he asked, looking a little winded and very confused.

"Astrid is taking them back to the house, but it's just him and Emma. They said a dark man pulled another friend of theirs into the kitchens when he attacked them, or something like that."

Gold's eyes widened. "What! Well for god's sake man why are we standing here?"

Leroy was not the most personable man on Earth, by any means, and opened his mouth to snap something, probably pointing out his employer couldn't do much with a bad ankle like he had, when David Nolan came hurrying up behind them. The stableman's hat was missing and he said, "Astrid says there's trouble at the Shadowhearst place, what can I do?"

David and Leroy ran towards Shadowhearst, while Gold hurried back to Avonlea House. He wasn't quick, but someone needed to get a message to the authorities in the village, and the other two men would fare better than he would back at the manor...

* * *

_Isaac Heller was a peddler, by classification, but an entrepreneur by trade. He went from town to town with his trunk of goods, selling people his fine wares, from patented hair tonics to quality gadgetry to better their menial lives._

_The village of Storybrooke was a pleasant, sleepy little community, but the old bearded parson was less than pleased when he set up his sideshow unwittingly outside his church, (how was he supposed to know that crummy little building was his church though?) and P.C. Graham had been quite firm when he escorted him to the edge of town and warned him not to return._

_However, one benefit of choosing to travel in the countryside as opposed to a more urban area was that the constables could ban him from town, but not from the surrounding farms and estates. And he heard from a young girl, some form of servant from her shabby clothing, talking to her elderly grandmother about a lonesome young lady up at a large estate, that seemed like a perfect place to start while his suit was still tidy and he looked well-put together._

_Rich people liked buying things from tidy eloquent gents, which was exactly what Isaac was._

_He'd asked directions of a farmer on the road who'd stopped to pull a stone from his horse's hoof, and despite the odd look, he'd given him the way to the manor, and he headed there at a brisk pace. He had made it there shortly before dark, and the sun sinking rapidly on the horizon, and he gave a sharp rap upon the door._

_Sometimes, rich folks liked to slum with the simple peddler, almost like they were doing something scandalous. Rich people were stupid, but wealthy, and a necessary evil to Isaac's profession._

_The door opened, while the light inside the foyer was dim, there was sufficient moonlight to see by, so Isaac had a clear view of the dark-skinned butler, with short cropped dark hair and intelligent though wary dark eyes, standing in the doorway._

_"Good evening, my good sir," Isaac tipped his bowler with a wide grin. "The name is Isaac Heller, purveyor of useful goods and prized commodities. Might the lady of the house be interested in fine embroidery? I have a lovely selection of thread-"_

_"No thank you, good evening."_

_The butler went to shut the door but Isaac jammed his boot in the door. Fortunately, the butler was one of the kinder sort that didn't try to crush his foot, so when the door opened up, the peddler pushed his way inside with a smug feeling of satisfaction._

_"Sir," the butler did sound less polite now. "You need to go now, the master doesn't like peddlers. Please, just leave, before we both get in trouble."_

_"Well if the master isn't interested, perhaps you could direct me to the servants hall?" Isaac suggested, setting down his large case on the floor. "My wares are of impeccable quality and reasonable price! Does your cook fancy a new coffee grinder perhaps?"_

_The butler's dark eyes rolled, but undeterred, Isaac bent down to start opening the trunk._

**_"Sir,"_** _the butler urged. "The master is a very dangerous fellow. He will not take kindly to catching you on his property, if you value your life, you need to leave. Now."_

_"Now wait just a minute, I think I have something that will interest any country gentleman. A pair of fine silver cufflinks," Isaac stood up with the links in his hands. "Inlaid with genuine mother-of-pearl...sir?"_

_Where did the butler go?_

_A moment ago, the swarthy butler had been standing right here in a rather dowdy old-fashioned livery, but now there was no sign of him. Perhaps he'd walked off to find a sturdy footman to toss him out on his ear? Hmm...that was a possibility that didn't appeal to Isaac Heller. He was considering fleeing to the next house when he the light in the foyer suddenly flickered out._

_A chill ran up Isaac's spine. The foyer, which was rather lovely and polished in the light, bore an unmistakably more eerie atmosphere in the dark..._

_A breath puffed down Isaac's neck, and before he could scream, a heavy hand clamped over his mouth--_

* * *

"Oh... _my god_..."

David and Leroy had found the kitchen door locked and barred. They'd dashed around to the front door, which was ajar. Whatever fate had befallen little August, it did not appear to be a pleasant one if this was any indicator.

Pushing the door open, there was a peddler dead on the dusty foyer floor.

The body was cold, lying in a darkened, congealed pool of blood spilled from the grinning slash at his throat. It had once been a man with a sharpish face and dark hair, his dark eyes wide and clouded, his limbs stiffened with rigor mortis. It was not a recent murder, but not so old either. Perhaps made the night before.

The two men looked at each other in shock.

A murderer was loose on Shadowhearst Manor's grounds.


	4. Chapter 4

P.C. Graham identified the body as soon as he arrived on the scene: Isaac Heller, a peddler he had run out of the village yesterday afternoon. That cleared up that mystery, but the fact remained that he had been murdered in a mansion...that was completely abandoned.

Neal and Emma were safely ensconced in the kitchens of Avonlea House to be fussed over by Mrs. Lucas while Gold rode back over to the manor to have a look for himself, disbelieving the fact that Shadowhearst was abandoned. And yet it was.

Shadowhearst Manor was filled with dust, cobwebs, the odd rat or roach, but not one person had stepped foot inside for years. Isaac Heller left prints in the thick grime on the floor, but there were no prints elsewhere until investigators started arriving. No one lived here. Not a tramp, not a drifter, and...especially not a young woman and her father.

The local police were immediately on the case, joined shortly by a detective that Gold immediately put no faith in, a large, somewhat handsome man that smelled like hair oil, furthering his greasy first impression. Detective Nottingham also took a nip from a flask regularly, when he assumed no one was looking, and was trying to convince everyone it was just a petty theft gone wrong as the unfortunate Mr. Heller did have a few valuable pieces in his junk-box, which was the easier route to take than investigating a murder.

The one thing Nottingham did take notice of happened to be females. Astrid had trotted over from across the way with a message from Mrs. Lucas. asking if he would like her to send some sandwiches, and the poor girl was beset upon like a sandwich herself, the detective being the starving man. It was fortunate for Astrid that Leroy, who's diminutive height did not match his fierce temper, jumped to her aid and escorted her home.

They would end up married, Gold wagered, before turning his attention back to P.C. Graham, the competent investigator, as he asked Gold if he'd seen anything suspicious.

"I don't understand, my son and his friends have come over here once a week at least since the spring. There were people living here," he insisted. Despite the skeptical look Graham gave him, Nolan and Leroy had both given similar statements, so the skepticism was balanced with curiosity. "Before the man was found, my son and Mr. Nolan's daughter ran screaming from the house, saying that a man had dragged their other friend, um, August, in through the servants entrance when the man tried kidnapping Emma."

"Where were you at that time?"

"The usual path we take through the woods, and a little to the left down the tree line. There's a bench there, I was sitting with Miss Rose."

"Who?" Graham frowned.

"Miss Rose, Isobel Rose. She's supposed to live in this house, you can usually find her outside in the gardens."

Nottingham slid in then, looking curious. "What does the lady look like?"

_An angel._

"Brown hair, beautiful blue eyes," Gold recounted, then decided on a less poetic description. "Rather petite, she's about a half-head shorter than I am. Ah, the last I saw of her today, she was wearing a gold-colored walking dress. She said that her father mismanaged their finances and that was why the house looks so terrible."

"And you've seen this woman? Who else has?" Graham asked, far more professionally than Nottingham.

"Well, Mr. Nolan has. And my son and Nolan's daughter, our cook's granddaughter, I believe Mrs. Nolan met her once..." Gold frowned, glancing around the neglected hall they stood in.

"We'll keep an eye out for her," Graham said, flipping his notebook shut. "You should return to your son Mr. Gold. I'd keep him away from the house, this old mansion isn't safe for anyone."

"Yes..."

"We will let you know if we find anything. Good day, sir."

Gold nodded absently as the constable tipped his hat and walked away, Nottingham slinking after him. An icy feeling started trickling down Gold, a cold sweat of realization. He made as if to leave the estate for home as Graham had wisely suggested, but walked towards the rear of the property instead.

If the home was abandoned since, at least, Lord Huntsford went mad and murdered everyone...then where had Miss Rose gone? And who was she really?

* * *

Astrid walked with Leroy back to Avonlea House. The groundskeeper was a gruffy sort, a bit shorter than Astrid, and bit older too, but she thought he was sweet. He was sort of like a crusty bread, all tough and, well, _crusty_ , on the outside, but soft inside. They walked quite a bit together but he asked for no favors, and when Astrid held his hand the first time she thought he blushed all over.

Detective Nottingham had been a very unpleasant fellow. He smelled like spirits and hair oil, stood too close to Astrid, and when he said he wanted to "take her statement", it felt like an improper innuendo. Then Leroy had swooped in and escorted her home like a _proper_ gentleman, even in his muddy boots.

Astrid worried for the little boy, August, and wondered if Neal and Emma were going okay back at the house. She found them tucked in a corner with cups of hot tea likely thrust into their little hands by Mrs. Lucas, looking shaken. Ruby was the one to ask for news, and both Leroy and Astrid reported: There was no word on August. And more disturbingly, the manor was abandoned. And it had been. For decades.

"But we saw a maid cleaning in one of the windows," Emma protested. "There were people inside, Neal and me saw them!"

"Nobody's lived in that evil place since I was a girl," Mrs. Lucas insisted, scrubbing the floury counter a bit more forcefully. "Every last servant that was in that house that day never stepped foot outside. Unless you count the three bodies of poor souls found outside."

Granny hated Shadowhearst Manor. Astrid suspected she'd burn it to the ground if she had her way. She never wanted to hear about it, so the children made a point to not discuss what they'd done or what story their friend Miss Rose had told them-Wait a moment.

If the house was abandoned...

"Where's Miss Rose live then?" Neal asked. "If the house is abandoned-"

Granny grabbed the closest implement to hand-a heavy rolling pin,-and jabbed it in Neal's direction.

"The next person to say one more word about that damned estate in this kitchen, so help me, will be rolled into piecrusts and served for supper!"

No more words about the estate were spoken.

Leroy took the basket of sandwiches back to the police at the manor, which Astrid was very thankful for, and was sure to tell him as much, which caused him to turn red and tug his hat on a bit quickly in his hurry to get out the door. He was sweet. With all that finished, Astrid had to go on with her duties as if a murder hadn't happened next door.

The life of a housemaid was far safer and more secure than that of a farmers wife. Service had the benefit of being regular work, whereas farms relied on the animals and the rain and what crops grew and if there was too much or too little at the market.

Astrid had been in service since she was twelve, finding it a better alternative to a poorhouse or continuing to live in the orphanage she'd been brought up in. It had high and low points, but work at Avonlea House was rather pleasant. Mr. Gold wasn't like her last employer, or more specifically, the head housekeeper Mrs. Faye, who ran the maids with an iron fist. She'd outright sacked one girl for the day off to attend her mother's funeral.

Compared to that, Astrid had been over the moon to have half Sundays, Christmas day, and New Years Day off. And Mr. Gold was one of those rare gentlemen with a self-made fortune that hadn't forgotten what it was like to be a regular person, so he made allowances for sickness and family deaths. Even if he was a little scary.

Astrid and Ella, the other housemaid, were currently in the process of finding the source of a leak in the roof. The drip had made it's way through a bare spot in the attic floor, right over Ella's head in bed, so that she'd had to sleep curled up at the foot of the bed with a pot near the headboard if there was so much as a drizzle. They thought the ceiling had been repaired, but the leak in the roof was missed, causing the ceiling to leak again.

So today they had decided to go upstairs and look for it. Figuring out where exactly their quarters were, and then where the roof was leaking, was proving harder than expected, especially since all they had to go by was one window and two lanterns they brought upstairs with them.

Ella stood on her toes, blue eyes squinting at the wooden roof as she stood balanced on a chair. Astrid would likely break her neck if she tried climbing in a chair like that, so she stayed on her hands and knees, crawling around to see if she could find the water stains on the floor to help narrow down the searching field.

Just when her knees and back started going stiff, Astrid thought she saw the stain on the bare floor, between a rarely used chest that was Mr. Gold's, and a stack of old hatboxes left by a previous owner. It turned out to be naught but a shadow, so Astrid sat up and stretched, feeling something snap comfortably. Then she noticed the dusty white sheet beyond the hatboxes, cloaking some odd-shaped item.

The attic was filled with all manner of junk and lost treasures. Most of it was left by previous owners, as Avonlea had gone through a string of bad luck the past decade. Some were just spooked by living so close to the Murder House, others just disliked the quiet of the country they thought they wanted so much. Things in the attic often went forgotten and disused...except by rats. Astrid really hoped there wasn't a rat under the sheet as she lifted it up.

Paintings.

A stack of paintings, leaning against some larger old boxes that looked dusty enough to have been here for half a century. They were in good condition, ranging from the size of a roasting pan to almost the size of a window. Astrid peered through them, the first being a landscape and the second being a ship at sea, while the third painting stared back at her with startling blue eyes.

Shifting the first two paintings aside, Astrid tugged the portrait out. With the thick gilded frame, it was nearly three feet tall, and about half as wide. The woman depicted in oil on canvas was a beautiful young girl, perhaps eighteen or a bit younger, with glossy auburn hair and creamy skin and coral-pink lips. She looked dainty, and Astrid wondered if this portrait were life-sized. The deep blue gown she wore had a neckline low on her shoulders and coming together in a sloping V shape, dripping with lace trim, her vibrant crystal-blue eyes jumping off the painting like they were alive.

Who was this woman and what was her painting doing in the attic? She'd certainly been a one-of-a-kind beauty, whoever she'd been.

* * *

Her mother had always accused Merida of having a short temper unbefitting a lady, even when they'd mended most of their differences. But Elinor Dunbroch herself would likely consider knocking the pushy detective right in his gob if he kept harassing them.

It was late afternoon, Merida hadn't eaten since breakfast, and her hunger and the having to wait in the only police station in Storybrooke was making her, in a word, cranky. Her riotous gingery curls had started breaking away from their well-pinned twist, it was hot as the devil's kitchen in this stuffy place, and the detective would not let up until they told him whatever the dickens it was he wanted to hear.

P.C. Graham, the far more believable lawman in the room, also seemed tired by Nottingham's line of questioning.

"Miss French, Miss Dunbroch, if you would mind just staying here a bit longer. There was a murder last evening at an estate outside of the village, Shadowhearst Manor, and what's so queer about that is the victim was a peddler, and the house has been abandoned for years."

Merida pursed her lips. "Aye, that's a bit strange. If this is because we're the only two strangers in town-"

"Oh no, no ma'am," Graham shook his head, then eyed Belle curiously. "But you see, there's another detail we're waiting on a witness to verify."

"I thought the house was abandoned."

"It is," Nottingham nodded, giving Merida's friend a far less curious and far more blatant leer. "But a number of people report seeing a small, brown-haired, blue-eyed woman in fine clothes up there. It's not unheard of, lady murderers. Especially the hot-tempered members of the fairer sex."

Merida curled her lip.

Oh, yes, she hated this man.

Graham, again, _bless him_ , stepped in to add: "The witnesses aren't so much for the murder, but for the identity of the young woman. The man who's recently bought the property next to Shadowhearst, his son, two other children, the parents of one of those children, all of them have seen this woman and described her in the exact same way. Petite, brown hair, blue eyes, fair skin, usually a gold dress."

Merida looked at her companion's navy blue traveling outfit the same time the wearer looked down at herself.

"We're, um, mostly just checking every lead. This is a puzzling case," Graham admitted, looking as embarrassed to be here as Merida was furious. At least not ever man in this room was a complete-

"You wanted to see me, Constable?"

Merida turned towards the door. Despite Nottingham's best efforts, they weren't locked up yet, just seated in the front office. So she had a clear view of the small, slender older gentleman with both hands planted on his cane. It was the accent that made Merida curious, a Scottish brogue from home, but worn smooth, likely from time spent in England making his fine fortune to pay for that smartly tailored suit and hat.

He removed his hat gracefully and crossed the room with a slight limp, obviously the cane was less of an accessory and more a necessity. Graham nodded, rising from his chair with his hands folded behind his back.

"Yes sir, Mr. Gold. I would like for you to meet Miss Merida Dunbroch, and Miss-"

"Miss Rose?" Gold blinked, staring like he'd seen a ghost.

Merida raised her brow while her companion frowned, a slight crease between her brows as she gently corrected him:

"No sir, Mr. Gold. My name is Belle French, how do you do?"


	5. Chapter 5

Belle French had been born and raised in Australia, the modest heiress to a gold mining operation started by her savvy great-grandparents. Her mother had died when she was but two, from an outbreak of fever, and her father was a rough-and-tumble miner unused to rearing little girls, so Belle had spent a great deal of time in the company of her great-grandmother, Colette. Other gold heiresses Belle had met were either sheltered from reality or pampered rotten, and none were expected to inherit the business end of their family fortunes.

But Gram had been her husband's closest business partner, she always said. She kept an eye on his books after his former partner had attempted to skim their profits, and had fully taken hold of the business when her husband died. Belle had always looked up to Gram, the only mother she had really known. She had come from England, and often told Belle stories about her old home, Avonlea House, in the northern countryside.

So it only seemed natural, when Gram passed and after her mourning period ended, that Belle should finally go and see her ancestral home. So she left her affairs in the capable hands of Mister Alan Prentiss for three months before taking a steamer ship north. Gram had never had the desire to return to England, but Belle had always wanted to travel, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. She wrote ahead to Gram's goddaughter, born before she'd left for Australia, who was pleased to have Belle visit with them in on the Scottish-England border before she headed southwards to Storybrooke.

When they met her at port, Mrs. Dunbroch was a stately lady with dark brown hair and honey-colored eyes that was perfectly serene where her husband, Mr. Dunbroch, was friendly and noisy and active despite the wooden leg he'd gotten at war in the East.

Their home was a lovely old estate, the likes of which Belle had only seen in pictures before. (She felt very much like the country cousin arriving in the city for the first time.) Here, she meet their triplet sons, three little boys with curly red hair and bright blue eyes like Mr. Dunbroch. They never spoke, but they all bowed to Belle politely when she arrived at their home along the Scotland-England border when their mother introduced her in the foyer.

And then they ran off, with biscuits falling out from under their little coats where they'd been stashed, and a harried-looking governess dashing after them.

Their eldest child was also their only daughter, who had been out riding when Belle arrived. So Belle met Merida in the halls when she was dashing to her room, her reddish-orange hair curling wildly out of place and her hat in her hand, with freckled, wind-chapped cheeks and wide brown eyes.

"Oh my god!" she gasped breathlessly. "You must be Miss French, oh, I'm Merida Dunbroch, I'm so sorry we met like this my mum just sent me up here to tidy up-Ach! Pretend you didn't see me, please?"

Belle started giggling, pressing her hands over her mouth in a fruitless attempt to stop.

"See what? I haven't seen anyone."

Merida grinned broadly, very much like her father, and snickered. "I think we'll get along swimmingly, when we meet, pardon me."

It was all Belle could do to maintain a straight face when she joined Mrs. Dunbroch in the parlor and Merida-with her hair styled, wearing a deep blue-green tea gown, and looking like she was trying not to laugh either,-entered the room at a controlled pace when her mother said, "Oh, there you are. Belle, this is my daughter Merida. Merida, this is our guest."

"A pleasure to finally meet you," the redhead bobbed a quick curtsy.

Later, when Mrs. Dunbroch left the room for a moment, both girls dissolved into giggles.

They didn't have much in common as far as interests went: Merida was a confident girl, fond of riding and hunting and traditionally "masculine" hobbies that drove her mother to distraction. Belle was a quieter sort of girl, preferring the company of a good book indoors. Both of them shared similar frustrations over what a "proper lady" was, and both had little interest in being pressured into a "good match" either.

Merida currently had three young men vying for her hand, the eldest sons of her father's friends. (And sometimes rivals, Merida added, since every oath she knew came from their arguments during a foxhunt.) Young Macintosh was a handsome sort but incredibly vain and childish, Young McGuffin was the most polite though big as an ox and almost completely unintelligible when he spoke, and Young Dingwall...

Belle wasn't sure if the lad wasn't a bit simple, having only met him one time. But suddenly, meeting the trio, she understood why Merida was so against marriage for the time being. She hardly had a good selection.

When the time came for Belle to head south to Storybrooke, Merida decided to be Belle's traveling companion. (She carried a small pistol in her handbag, so they weren't exactly two helpless young ladies.) They headed south to England aboard a train, and spent the night at a nearby inn before taking a coach to Storybrooke. It was a quaint little village, like something from a fairy tale, Belle thought. The citizens either eyed them like strangers were the devil, or smiled kindly and walked on. They had just booked a room in the Benbow Inn in town and decided to take a walk through town before finding some lunch, when a tall, broad man slid up to them.

"Pardon me ladies, might I have a word with you?"

Belle was polite. However, she would come to regret her good manners as the afternoon wore on...

The man, Detective Nottingham, began pressing them for where they were yesterday. And he was overly interested in Belle especially. He didn't seem to believe her name was Isabelle French, and he caught her arm at last and said, "I'm going to have to ask you to come with me, miss."

Merida stubbornly went with her, refusing to leave her alone with the man. Belle was thankful for that because she was so tiny, and Detective Nottingham was so large, and there were so many ways this could go wrong. He wouldn't let them go until they admitted...something. She wasn't sure what. A police constable, the local bobby she assumed, an Irishman named Graham, came into the station with an irritated look at the detective. He sat down and started acting as a buffer, which only tempered Merida's growing anger so much, and to be honest, it was on the tip of Belle's tongue to ask what it was they were trying to get at when Graham mentioned a suspect matching her description.

Gram had never talked about her family in England. It was something Belle had noticed, but never thought to ask about really. Perhaps she'd had some siblings with offspring that remained in the area, because Belle had only been in town for five hours. She couldn't be a murderess.

Then the door opened and a gentleman stepped in.

He wasn't very tall, but had a very large presence. His hair was a bit long, brushed back beneath his bowler hat he removed elegantly. He wore a fashionable-yet-dark suit, darker than a country gentleman usually wore, Belle thought, and leaned on a gold-handled cane as he walked in. The man's eyes were brown and sharp, with small flecks of gold. Lovely, she'd thought, and intelligent. They fell on her when Graham introduced them to this Mr. Gold, and they widened in disbelief.

"Miss Rose?" he asked, sounding like he'd seen a ghost.

"No sir, Mr. Gold. My name is Belle French, how do you do?" she said, more out of habit than in a real greeting.

Nottingham puffed up proudly. "I take it that's our woman then, eh Gold?"

The shock on the gentleman's face withered into disdain for Nottingham, (which Belle fully understood,) as his lovely brown eyes flicked from her to the detective with a sneer.

"Before you lock the young lady up, _Detective_ , might I speak to Miss...French, was it?"

"Yes sir."

He nodded to her, and the gesture was perfectly calm, but Belle still felt like the man was trying to peel secrets from her soul with his eyes. He stood a distance from her, hands folded over the handle of his cane. The tip of Mr. Gold's tongue ran over his thin lips before he spoke.

"What brings you to Storybrooke, Miss French?"

Belle shifted in her seat. Oh lovely. Pins and needles. How long had they been stuck here again? Right. Five hours.

"My grandmother passed away recently. She came from this village, or rather Avonlea House nearby. I wanted to see if I could visit it, because Gram always told me it was a lovely place, but I've never been outside of Australia before." She glanced coolly at Nottingham. "We only just arrived in town, you see. We haven't gotten a chance to look around, Miss Dunbroch and I."

Mr. Gold's eyebrow bounced up curiously. "That's a coincidence indeed, I happen to be the owner of Avonlea House. I just purchased it this past December."

"Did you really?" Belle felt herself smiling. "Oh! Might we come and see it, please?"

"Ah, Belle?" Merida said, putting a hand on her arm. "We're a wee bit occupied here, aren't we?"

Right. Police.

Graham had watched the entire exchange closely, his eyes darting back and forth between Mr. Gold and Belle, until Mr. Gold turned to him.

"I believe there's been a mistake here, Constable. You have the wrong woman entirely."

Graham nodded and rose to his feet. "I agree. I apologize ladies-" he glared at Nottingham, who looked entirely unrepentant, and even a little miffed, "-for the inconvenience we have caused you. I'll have Mrs. Hawkins take the day off your bills at her inn."

Belle decided P.C. Graham deserved a bit of kindness, for all his considerate patience in mediating a situation that would likely have ended with Merida shooting Nottingham between his beady eyes. (They hadn't checked her purse like they'd checked Belle's...my but that could have gone badly.) So she nodded politely and smiled. "Thank you very much, sir, that's most kind."

Nottingham stalked after them as they went outside, hovering uncomfortably close even as Belle and Merida were to start down the street. "How long might you ladies be staying in town?" he asked...and without a note of professionalism in his voice.

"Ahem," Mr. Gold cleared his throat, and Belle jumped a bit because she'd forgotten he was there. "Perhaps, sir, if you took a step back and allowed them the room to think?"

Merida snorted as Nottingham grudgingly obeyed Gold's sharp words.

"Not very long, I should think, now that we know where we're going," Merida smiled brightly, linking her arm through Belle's. "Pardon us Mr. Gold, but do you think we might call on you tomorrow afternoon?"

"That sounds lovely, you would be most welcome. Might I escort you ladies back to the Benbow Inn so I might assist you in explaining your situation to Mrs. Hawkins?"

Belle smiled a bit more genuinely, possibly for the first time that day. "Thank you, that would be wonderful."

* * *

Regina had been told, rather often, that she looked like her mother when she was young and beautiful. Cora Mills was still a handsome woman in her late forties, though not as fresh-faced or charming anymore. The charm Mrs. Mills did have came from experience in toying with people. Especially men. Something she despaired of Regina never learning.

"Men believe themselves to be in charge of the world, darling," she would croon while a maid brushed out Regina's long dark hair. "What they don't realize is that they only have as much freedom as the most powerful woman in the vicinity allows them. Look at Queen Victoria, for example, she has led the empire for decades through times of great prosperity with her head held high."

Bold talk, considering Cora Mills was the illegitimate daughter of a Spaniard who only lost her native accent through years of voice training.

Regina loved her mother, she really did. But she was also extremely frustrated because Mother treated her like a dress-up doll, or a child. She was dressed and coiffed according to her wishes, had been made to start waist-training as young as twelve, was never allowed to sit so much as the slightest deviation from perfectly straight, had learned to speak French and to play the pianoforte, kept the company of a preselected circle of heiresses, and was allowed exactly two hours alone to herself a day. And even that was more granted as a concession so that she and Zelena wouldn't be quarreling at all hours.

The Mills sisters were a year apart, with little in common. While Regina was dark-haired and brown-eyed, wishing for her freedom, Zelena was a fair redhead absolutely desperate for Mother's approval. For some reason, her sister thought that Regina unfairly got more attention than her. As a result, she blamed her every unhappiness upon Regina and made it her goal to make her miserable by wearing her gowns and hiding or breaking her things and tattling on Regina any chance she got.

Which was why dear, sweet Daniel had been scooped up and shipped out with the Navy and brought back in a pine box...and Regina wasn't even allowed to attend the funeral.

Since Daniel five years ago, Regina had lived in a general malaise. She was approaching twenty-two years of age, in November. Zelena, at twenty-four, would have been considered an old maid...if she weren't also considered positively mad by every bachelor in London. Zelena turned down the proposal of Mr. Walsh, and the reason they weren't in London this season was due to Zelena's rumored (and likely true,) scandal with a Mr. Hadean. He had proposed marriage which Zelena was eager to accept, but Mother had demurred saying they should wait until the rumors died down. She didn't like Mr. Hadean, he was a newspaper mogul that had a finger in every pie.

And when one had as many secrets as Cora Mills, you feared that sort of gentleman.

Oddly enough, Mother didn't fear Mr. Gold. Regina was certain she could like Mr. Gold if he weren't always on guard against her mother, something she never blamed him for. He was almost shorter than Regina, a slight gentleman who created his own fortune through investments and a textile business. His hair was oddly long, streaked with gray, and his eyes were dark brown. He wasn't what Regina thought of as handsome, but she wouldn't deny the man had a degree of charm. And lord knows the man was cunning, sharper than even her mother was.

He also treated Regina as an individual rather than her mother's daughter, which was a sheer novelty.

Mr. Gold hadn't known, at the time, that he was buying a house-Avonlea House,-on the opposite side of Storybrooke Village from the Russetfield, the estate the Mills family lived in. Regina wagered he regretted it, too, as Mother and he were consistently at war since the Golds arrived in December. Zelena, for reasons Regina couldn't see, was absolutely infatuated with Mr. Gold and pursued him in a manner that was most embarrassing for the younger sister to witness. Mother was pleased, though, encouraging Zelena to continue. She needled Regina to do the same, hinting at Gold's great wealth and the benefits that would come with being his wife, but that idea held no appeal at all.

Besides, Mr. Gold was a solitary man with an heir already. What would Regina be expected to do should she marry him? Become an evil stepmother hell-bent on placing her child as the beneficiary to Mr. Gold's fortune? Hardly.

Still, Mr. Gold was good company. He had a snideness Regina could match and they enjoyed teaming up to launch little darts at an unwitting Zelena when Mother invited them to supper.

And when Mother tugged her arm and began pulling her down the street of Storybrooke in a bee-line for Mr. Gold, Regina suspected that was exactly what would be in her future yet again.

Mr. Gold, oddly enough, was in the company of two young ladies. One was a tiny brunette with blue eyes, the other was of average height and hair brighter red and wilder than even Zelena's was, springing free here and there in unruly ringlets. A look of annoyance crossed Mr. Gold's face, and the redhead just rolled her dark eyes. Clearly they were as unwelcomed as Regina suspected they'd be.

That did not deter her mother, who smiled regally and said, "Good afternoon Mr. Gold, how are you?"

"Tolerably well," he nodded stiffly. "Though terribly busy at the moment, so if you will excuse us-"

"And how do you do, ladies?" Mother's placid smile turned on the two girls. "I don't believe we've met before. My name is Cora Mills, and this is my daughter Regina."

The tiny brunette gave a pained smile, but politely curtsied. "How do you do? I'm Belle French."

"Merida Dunbroch," the redhead nodded curtly, her Scottish brogue, thicker than Gold's, very impatient. "How d'ye do? I don't mean to be rude, ladies, but Mr. Gold was right, we are terribly busy."

"Yes, perhaps you can get acquainted another time, Mrs. Mills," Mr. Gold added. "We must be off."

"Why not dinner, then?"

"Pardon?"

Regina held in a sigh as her mother smile brightened. No matter how brightly mother smiled, it was always like the light of a cold winter sun, barren of warmth. This was her smile that she used when she had outmaneuvered someone with words, particularly the eloquent Mr. Gold.

"Why not come to dinner at our home? Then we could all meet properly and I could introduce you to the rest of our family."

Food seemed to soften Miss Dunbroch's flinty eyes. Regina suspected she was hungry. She'd seen many a girl in London become cranky and unreasonable because she was hungry and her guardian or beau were preventing her from eating. Miss French was likely too polite to decline, a touch naive too if the pleased smile was an indicator. Mr. Gold just sighed wearily, leaning on his cane as the brunette nodded.

"That sounds lovely, Mrs. Mills. What time would you be expecting us?"

"Oh, 'round six o'clock. Shall we be expecting you, Mr. Gold? We'll be having roast turkey for our main course tonight, and Zelena will be pleased should you come."

"Why not? I enjoy a well dressed turkey," he smiled thinly. "I'm sure the bird will be most adequate as well."

Regina forced herself not to smirk, especially given the spark of displeasure in her mother's eye as she forced out a laugh. They bid their farewells and carried on their way while Mr. Gold and the ladies walked in the opposite direction. And Regina suspected tonight's dinner was going to be a very strange affair.

* * *

Miss French was so incredibly like Miss Rose that Gold was beginning to doubt what was up and what was down.

It wasn't just the red-and-gold-tinted brown hair, or the beautiful blue eyes, or the same delicate features and small, neat shape. It was how she walked, the cadence of her speech, how she smiled at the little things with her whole being, a ray of sunlight on a cloudy day. The only difference Gold could discern, was that her name was Belle French rather than Isobel Rose, and she had a noticeable Australian accent rather than a refined aristocratic one.

He agreed to attend Cora's little dinner in part to see why Cora had invited them, and to simply spend another piece of time in her presence. She couldn't possibly be Miss Rose. All evidence was rapidly pointing to Miss Rose never having existed in the first place, at least physically in his life. But at the same time...

Seeing Miss French at Russetfield had knocked Gold for a six though, all on her own.

She was stunning.

Her hair was swept up in loose, artful curls. The only jewelry she wore was a plain pearl pendant hanging around her neck in the enviable place close to her heart. There may have been some rogue on her plump, kiss-tempting lips, but first Gold had to look past the gorgeous pale golden silk confection she was wearing, sleeveless with long white gloves, looking like Venus stepped from her carriage to consort with mere mortals here on Earth.

Gold had never been so glad to have Zelena Mills pester him for attention in his life. It allowed him to ease his brain back into functioning, something to focus on that wasn't Miss French's gorgeous everything.

Zelena was Cora's firstborn daughter. Once upon a time, Gold and Cora had been lovers. He had been madly in love with the Spanish beauty, giving her a home in his flat and amazed tht she had shared a bed with a runty little jock like him. However, she hadn't loved him more than she loved the idea of bagging a wealthy husband and as soon as Jonathan Greene, a wealthy heir to a large banking fortune, approached her with a smile and a fat wallet, she left him faster than she could say, "Goodbye."

She had married Henry Mills within two months, and Zelena had been born precisely nine months later. There had been much congratulations for the couple, though that was likely because until one understood how long it took to carry a child, one didn't realize it was closer to ten months. Gold had a good laugh over that--until Cora introduced him in London and Zelena became inexplicably smitten by him. She had recently been caught in a scandal Cora was waiting to die down, with Mr. Hadean. Gold suspected that meant Zelena's type was older, powerful gentleman of fortune, and wished Hadean the best of luck with the lunatic he proposed to.

She was all but hanging off his arm, as thought trying to stake her claim before Miss French and Miss Dunbroch, (the latter of which looked like she was going to box the other redhead in the ears, which Gold might actually pay to see,) and making an embarrassment of herself as always.

Cora stood by placidly, her husband had been coaxed into a conversation about the countryside climate by Miss French, and Regina just sat on the couch looking miserable until they went in for dinner.

(Gold was seated between the Mills girls, naturally, and Cora smirked whenever Gold glared at her.)

Miss French was, the more Gold watched her, not a perfect replica of Miss Rose after all. She was less quiet, a bit more confident. She was still gentle with Mr. Mills, who Gold empathized with being cowed by his horrid wife, but when Zelena attempted to sneer down her nose at the little Australian who came from gold mining money, she sat up rigidly straight and said, "I run a business, Miss Mills. I manage my investments and return those that the investors have paid, I compensate the workers for their long hours, and ensure the safety of them as well. It isn't as though I have been digging in the mines with a shovel myself, I don't see why you think it so undignified."

It was scolding. It was prim. It was a beautiful retort and Gold studied the determined set of her soft jaw and the way she tilted her head, admiring the core of steel underneath all the softness of her exterior. Miss Rose had been all gentle and calming, but there was always something so shy about her. Belle French was not shy.

As evident when conversation rolled around to the unmarried ladies at the table. Miss Dunbroch was apparently besieged by three unsatisfactory suitors at home, sons of her father's companions, (or rivals, she admitted, depending on the time of day,) that likely only pursued her because their father's insisted on the match.

Gold did not miss the wistful look in Regina's eye as Miss Dunbroch added; "My mum used to press me to choose one. She said love and respect will come with time in a marriage, but then she fell so sick with fever she thought she was going to die. Only she didn't and she decided that in the grand scheme of things, an arranged marriage likely wasn't as important as she'd thought it was in the first place. If you don't respect the person before you wed them, how can you expect that to change?"

Cora's nose crinkled slightly, likely offended by the sentiment of allowing one's daughter freedom of choice.

"Well, your mother only had your best interests at heart, Miss Dunbroch," she said with a deceptively sweet smile. "A gentleman wants a fortune, a wife, and heirs, in that order. And you can hardly get heirs out of an old maid."

Miss French pursed her lips. "What about all those aristocrats that have fortunes, wives, and heirs, and still insist on drink and gambling and mistresses? Why is it the woman that must be virtuous and pure while he gets to do whatever pleases him, however vulgar society views it?"

A suffragette, Gold smiled, looking down at his apple pudding. Cora wouldn't like that.

"You speak as though you have an experience in the matter, Miss French, but let me tell you this; Those are the expectations to the rule. Most men are just as virtuous and gallant as their brides are gentle and innocent," she insisted coolly. "And what would become of society if all women acted in such a fashion? Mothers at a public house rather than with their children, wives wasting their husbands hard-earned money, maidens laying with any man they take a fancy to. It would be Sodom and Gomorrah in the streets!"

It would have been a convincing argument if Gold hadn't used to take Cora to pubs when they were young and thought to be in love, and she _certainly_ hadn't been a maiden when she laid with him.

Regina meekly said, then, "But is there really a difference in a husband gambling his money away, and the wife?"

Cora sent Regina a look, then, that Gold knew well. Surprisingly not from Cora's own dark eyes, but the pale blue eyes of his father whenever a young Gold had the misfortune of questioning the man. From Malcolm Gold it usually incurred a sharp blow of the hand, but there were other kinds of hurt. The way Regina quietly turned back to her plate was proof of that.

"Well no decent woman would be so selfish, I'm sure," Zelena scoffed. (And Gold suspected she only spoke up then because Regina had been chastised and the elder sister _must_ contribute to what everyone else was talking about.) "Though I suppose not every man is as terrible as all that. Some must be gentleman in title and nature. Like the noble Sir Galahad. He never saved a damsel in distress in hopes of bedding her, did he?"

"Though, if I recall correctly," Miss French chimed in, smiling just a bit wickedly. "The chaste and pure Sir Galahad _was_ borne from the illegitimate and some might argue non-consensual night of passion between Lady Elaine and Lancelot when she assumed the shape of Queen Guinevere, Lancelot's true love."

Zelena wrinkled her face up in a manner Gold had noted meant she was defeated but still wanted to look down her fine nose at you, which made him smile.

Dinner eventually came to an end, not at the end of the meal per se, but when the butler stepped up and said, while looking very confused; "Mr. Mills, sir, Mr. Locksley is here."

"Whatever for?" Mr. Mills asked, looking just as confused as the butler. "And at this hour of the night?"

"He has a lady with him. He said that he was riding home to the village when he came across her carriage on the road. The axel had snapped and the driver had gone to town to seek help, but she asked him to take her here. A Mrs. Finch, I believe."

Regina perked a bit. "Mrs. Finch?"

Cora, on the other hand, looked a bit weary suddenly. Gold was certain that whomever Mrs. Finch was, he was going to like her.


	6. Chapter 6

Mallory Finch was a wealthy American widow who's primary residence was in Pennsylvania, where she oversaw a large portion of Finch and Daye Industries, particularly the steel mills and iron forges. There were a number of rumors surrounding Mrs. Finch's beginnings, ranging from an employee's daughter who caught the eye of the wealthy millionaire Mr. Finch to being a prostitute that made her way into said millionaire's bed. Either way, when Mr. Finch passed from consumption, Mrs. Finch gained half of his estate. And she had doubled the value within five years, enabling her a freedom most women envied and had made her the target of vicious gossips in London society when she began visiting for a period each season.

Not that Mrs. Finch gave a damn what the largely pampered and little experienced women of London society thought.

Regina admired her greatly and was fortunate enough to make her acquaintance. They had exchanged letters and Mrs. Finch often lent a sympathetic ear to Regina's woes about her mother. In turn, Cora was never sure how to handle Mrs. Finch because she didn't play by European rules. She was a lawless, untamed American and had the most disconcerting gaze.

Gold felt a bit odd when her blue eyes roved around the room and lighted on each person in attendance. She was perhaps a year or three younger than Cora was, fair-skinned with blonde hair, with dark rouge on her lips, and a fashionable deep purple dress more suited to daywear than evening with those puffed sleeves. The color choice was a bit odd, but given that her hat appeared to be set with raven feathers and her jewelry consisted of black pearl earrings and a jet brooch shaped like a dragon with tiny emerald eyes, that was hardly the strangest thing about their guest.

Mr. Locksley, by contrast, was an utterly unremarkable Englishman, perhaps this side of handsome to the eye of a woman. He was tall and fit, with dark blonde hair and blue eyes, and a practical tweed suit despite the hour. He was a well-mannered country gentleman without a title that Gold could tolerate, tending to a great deal of his land himself, and once in a while one might see him walking about with he and his late wife's son, a lively little four-year-old named Roland.

Far and away, the most interesting thing about Mr. Locksley was how when he and Regina Mills' eyes met across a room, they both lit from the inside out.

One could only hope Cora hadn't noticed, as the last boy Regina took a fancy to without her permission had been press-ganged into the Navy and brought home in a coffin. Zelena, on the other hand, had noticed. This was the only reason Gold could deduce as to why she should glide up to the man and want to take all of his attention once he explained the situation:

"I was riding home through the village when I came upon Mrs. Finch's carriage. Her driver had already gone for help a quarter of an hour ago, but I couldn't very well leave her on the road like that, and she said she was acquainted with the family at Russetfield so I brought her here. I'm terribly sorry to have interrupted your dinner."

Gold wondered if Mrs. Finch had ridden on the back of Mr. Locksley's horse. He'd rather like to see that, given the volume of her skirts.

Zelena, however, slithered up to him and smiled in a simpering fashion that curdled the dinner in Gold's belly.

"Oh it is _no trouble_ at all Mr. Locksley, it was very kind of you to assist a lady in need."

"I suppose so, yes," Cora put on a false smile. One returned inch for inch by Mrs. Finch.

"You're very generous, I hope I haven't put you out much by staying the night, Mrs. Mills," she said. "I left a note for my driver saying he could find me here when the carriage was repaired."

If Cora couldn't stand one thing, it was losing face in public. And between Mr. Locksley, Mrs. Finch, Miss French and Miss Dunbroch, there were far too many witnesses for her to deny the woman's request.

Gold rather felt he'd learn to like Mrs. Finch, if she didn't keep turning those eyes on him. It made him feel like she'd stripped away the fine fabrics and cool mask to the scrawny little Glaswegian he was deep inside. A most unpleasant sensation to say the least.

Cora whisked Mrs. Finch up to a room somewhere, a footman relieving Mr. Locksley of the suitcase he had brought from the carriage. Gold had noticed, out the corner of his eye, Regina whisper something to Zelena that made her rush out the room after Mrs. Finch and her mother, and silently praised the younger sister for getting rid of the elder.

The entire parlor was much more relaxed without those two occupants. Mr. Mills even sat down with a bit of a sigh, and was able to hold a conversation with Miss Dunbroch over the types of game found in this part of the country.

Mr. Locksley, Gold knew, would be a better resource, but his attentions were entirely on Regina, who, likewise, only had eyes for him. Financially and socially, Regina was above Mr. Locksley in station. But in terms of making a good match, Regina would be hard-pressed to find someone more suited to her manners and peculiarities than Mister Robin Locksley, and vice versa.

It would be a great scandal and shame to Cora if Regina, upon who's young shoulders she placed all of her hopes of bringing her power and wealth, should run off with a common man of modest means.

Gold would host such a wedding at Avonlea House if they wished it.

Suddenly Miss French, neither wanting to interrupt the budding lovers nor having an opinion on hunting, was at his elbow. She looked up at him with curious and so very blue eyes, and asked quietly, "Did Mrs. Finch not have the most chilling eyes?"

"You noticed as well?"

"She kept staring at me like my flesh was invisible, and she could see right through to my soul. It's quite frightful, I'll admit, but I wonder what she saw."

Miss French got her wish sooner than she anticipated. Mrs. Finch returned with ten minutes, freshened up though still dressed in her purple gown. Unfortunately, with her returned Cora, and Zelena, the latter of which widened her eyes at how close Miss French was and fairly shoved her aside to stand before Gold with a wide smile that made him think of sharks. Only Zelena didn't warrant the respect Gold gave sharks.

Cora's appearance had silenced poor Henry again, and Regina nervously flitted away from Mr. Locksley. It wouldn't be unjust to compare Cora to a dark cloud hovering over a picnic. No matter how lovely the spread, the weather forbade anyone from truly enjoying themselves.

While comparing the lady of the house to a thunderhead, Gold had lost sight of Mrs. Finch until the woman appeared by her side with a cool smile. Apparently Zelena had dragged Miss French off to a corner of the room. Someone should really save the poor girl--luckily Miss Dunbroch was on her way there now, good, good.

"I don't believe we've met, Mallory Finch," she said, extending her hand in that informal way American's had. "How do you do?"

"Well enough for this evening," Gold replied, obligingly shaking hands. "Mr. Gold. I have heard a tale or two of you from Regina, you're rather the talk of London when you make a social appearance Mrs. Finch."

"Which is my prerogative," she smiled, her blue eyes boring into Gold's. It would seem he was fated to meet strange blue-eyed women as of late. "How do you like your home, Mr. Gold? I've heard pleasant things about Avonlea House from Regina. It's a lovely little estate, might I call on you tomorrow for a visit?"

Well, it wasn't as if her weren't expecting visitors tomorrow anyway. Hopefully he could still ask Miss French a few questions niggling at the back of his mind without much interference.

"As you wish," he nodded. "Shall I have my carriage come 'round to pick you up?"

"Oh, no need, I was going to spirit Regina away for a time, I'll have her arrange transportation."

Gold nodded again, and then let his gaze drift back to Miss French. Whatever Zelena had said had made her turn an inflamed shade of pink, and whatever she replied with caused Zelena to stiffen and turn on her heel to slink away.

He was in terrible danger of growing fond of that little woman, he thought with a smile.

* * *

Zelena Mills had cornered Belle at Russetfield with a false smile and tone of voice that was pitying, which didn't match the way she had waxed poetic about how close she and Mr. Gold were, or simply about the man in general, or even just about herself as opposed to Belle. It was exceedingly annoying and even with Merida's blunt assistance, it wasn't until Belle finally grew flustered and bit out: _"Well then why don't you just propose to Mr. Gold and be done with it!"_ that Zelena finally flounced away.

When they left not long afterwards, Merida couldn't stop grinning even once they returned to their room, and it was starting to annoy Belle.

"What are you smirking at so?" she demanded, plucking the pins out of her hair. Neither of them had ladies maids, although once in a while Merida needed help setting her wild hair, so it was no hardship to strip away their evening dresses and prepare for bed. "What?"

"Oh, just how you complained all the way back about that older Mills girl," she snickered, shaking her head. "You don't fancy Mr. Gold, do you? I mean you've only jut met and he's hardly swept you off your feet like a prince yet. Granted, those dark suits do rather grow on a girl. And you are a fool for some nice brown eyes, are you not?"

Belle felt her face grow hot.

(And certainly not because she hadn't noticed the dashing figure Mr. Gold made, or how he had lovely brown eyes indeed, and pleasantly soft-looking hair and a wry smile.)

"Oh do be quiet!" she snipped, tossing a nearby pillow in her companions direction. "I don't fancy him like that! That Zelena Mills is just an odious, catty-"

"Jealous?"

Belle threw another pillow.

"She has no reason to be jealous of _me_ , I don't know what her problem was."

Merida had sat down on the foot of her bed and wiggled out of her shoes. "Well, I do. She's jealous. I wager she's one of those mad women that are convinced a lad-or a man in this case,-is hers, when he'd rather not give her the time of day. It doesn't matter what you did, she just can't stand the fact that you could stand by Mr. Gold and make conversation with him where she couldn't."

With a sigh, Merida gave an unladylike flop onto her back, staring up at the ceiling.

"I don't look forward to falling in love if I turn into a madwoman, aye?"

"I'm sure not all love makes you that jealous," Belle said, wiggling out of her gown and carefully laying it over a chair to deal with in the morning. "Mad maybe, but not all lovers are like Zelena."

"And thank god for that. Otherwise the human race would be extinct because we'd all be repulsive to one another."

Belle couldn't help but giggle at that and little more was needed to be said as they put on nightgowns and crawled under the covers on their respective sides of the well-worn mattress, settling in for the night.

The next morning, bright and early, they dressed and had breakfast before tracking down a carriage to take them to Avonlea House. They were let off at the open gates and walked up the grave path until the house came into view. It was a charming home, a solid building of weathered stone and a white door, with well-kept lawns and bursts of colorful flowers here and there. It was just how Gram had described it, and Belle wondered which window belonged to the library.

A footman received them at the door, a tall, dark-haired man with blue eyes and a wide smile. He took them to a parlor, but before he had them inside the door a trio of children sprinted down the hall, carrying at least two tea cakes apiece in sticky hands and giggling like hyenas. A stern old matron with iron-gray hair and wire-rimmed spectacles stuck her head out of the room they escaped from and looked like she was about to start shouting when her gray eyes fell on Belle and she froze with a look of terror on her face.

Belle was sure she had never seen the woman before in her life, and yet, she looked at her like she knew Belle anyway. And was afraid of her.

"The rogues of Avonlea House are up to their old tricks, Mrs. Lucas?" the footman snickered, not noticing the old woman's expression in the slightest, but managing to break her spell.

The woman shook her head. "Y-yes, yes, I-I'm sorry, ladies, this is hardly a good first impression of our house."

"It's just like home to me," Merida grinned. "They're actually more polite than my brothers. They would've knocked us over carrying off their treats."

Belle had to agree, despite Mrs. Dunbroch's fine manners, Hubert, Hamish, and Harris were three of the most wild children Belle had ever seen. They did have a degree of respectability, much like Merida, that was their saving grace in being identified as wild rather than savagely misbehaved.

"I...I see. Well, ah, very well then."

Mrs. Lucas vanished with a bob of her head, and the footman shrugged.

"That would be our cook, Mrs. Lucas. Her granddaughter was the dark-haired girl of those hooligans that stormed through a minute ago," he explained, opening the parlor door. "Would you ladies like anything while I fetch Mr. Gold? Some tea perhaps?"

"Um, yes, I think that would be lovely," Belle smiled, trying to shake the odd feeling that came with Mrs. Lucas's gaze. "Thank you."

The parlor was a neat, tastefully decorated space. The curtains were drawn and the window overlooked a beautiful rose garden located behind the house. The idea that her great-grandmother may have sat here, or walked through the garden, was beginning to make the entire experience surreal to Belle. There was no evidence that her family had ever been in this house, which was no longer theirs, and now home to Mr. Gold. It was strange, really. Belle wondered if it would be easier to visit if Gram were there to tell her what she had done in this room when she lived here.

"D'you think this is how the house looked when your grandmother lived here?" Merida asked, seemingly thinking the same. She cast her dark eyes around at the furniture and nodded. "It looks grand."

"She was my great-grandmother, but her home back in Australia was always very lovely," Belle nodded.

"I thought she was your grandmother, didn't you say she raised your mum?"

"Well she did, but-"

The door opened then and a youngish maid let Mrs. Finch,-in another purple dress, this shade leaning towards gentle lilac with a bit of dove gray accents, her gloves black as though for mourning and her lips painted red as blood- into the room before she darted away. Only to come back and peep at Belle curiously.

"Uh..." Belle ignored the maid to smile at Mrs. Finch. "Good morning, Mrs. Finch, what brings you here?"

"I asked Mr. Gold if I might visit Avonlea House. It's a lovely, house with an interesting history. I'm sure you are aware. Isn't that right, dear?"

The maid turned pink. "I beg your pardon?" she squeaked.

Mrs. Finch smiled not unkindly. "You're staring, dear. At Miss French."

"Oh! Oh I'm so sorry, please forgive me! It's just, well, you look very much like a portrait I found in the attic."

Suddenly it made a bit more sense why she and Mrs. Lucas stared. They probably recognized her features from a forgotten portrait. "My great-grandmother lived her, many years ago, before she left for Australia," Belle explained. "That might be who is in the painting."

"Oh," the maid blinked. "Would you like to see the painting? I can bring it downstairs, it's not very big. At least at far as paintings go. I think."

"Astrid, while I wouldn't mind if you bring the painting down," Mr. Gold's voice spoke from the hallway. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind not standing in the doorways?"

The maid-Astrid,-squeaked again and darted out. "Pardon me Mr. Gold! I'll go get the painting!"

Mr. Gold stepped in, dressed in a dark gray suit and a red cravat today. Belle tried to silence that little teasing voice that sounded like Merida just as she was contemplating how well-tailored his jacket was to his wiry frame. He bowed his head politely to all the ladies in the room in one motion, and Merida gave Belle a nudge of her elbow.

"Have you made many changes to the house since you bought it, Mr. Gold?"

"I haven't, no. There were a few leaks in the roof that needed tending, but no redecorating choices precisely. It came very well furnished, there were even books in the library. Would you care for a tour?"

"That sounds like a wonderful idea," Belle agreed. She wondered what sort of books were left behind in the library, and if they had belonged to Gram.

They stepped out the room, and Mr. Gold turned to the footman in the hallway.

"Jefferson, do help Astrid take the portrait from the attic to the library. I trust her intentions, but I would rather not present a punctured canvas or cracked frame."

The footman, Jefferson, grinned widely. (Astrid was a bit clumsy, it would seem.) "Right away, sir."

* * *

Granny was in a snit, and Ruby didn't think it was all caused by their running off with tea cakes.

When Granny was upset, she cleaned aggressively. There was no stain or smudge on the counters, and yet, she was still scrubbing at a spot on the surface and pressing her lips together in that way she had, like it could keep something inside.

Ruby (who had returned to work in the kitchens and was feeling peculiar that she wasn't scolded,) finished setting up the tea tray and wondered if her grandmother was going to ever speak, or just continue to stew. She stood quietly by the counter until Jefferson eventually came for the tray. He eyed Granny's rag rubbing against the counter and quirked an eyebrow.

"Might I ask what that counter did to you?"

Ruby was almost pleased Jefferson asked the stupid question.

Granny glared at the footman and slung the rag down with a scowl. "None of your business! Where have you been, anyway?"

"Mr. Gold told me to help Astrid move a painting down from the attic. The little brunette visiting, Miss French, did you know her family came from Avonlea House?"

"Of course I did! I've lived in Storybrooke for longer than you've been alive, boy," Granny spat. "That girl is the spitting image of Isobel Rose. It was like I had seen a ghost, seeing her standing there in the hall."

Ruby's ears perked up. "Isobel Rose?"

"Would that be the woman in the painting?" Jefferson asked, leaning his elbows on the spotless kitchen island. "Brown hair, blue eyes?"

"Chestnut hair, brightest blue eyes, small frame, that was Isobel Rose. Beautiful face, beautiful heart. She never had an unkind word to say about anyone, no matter how well deserved."

"Is that Miss French's great-grandmother, then? Astrid said something about her leaving England for Australia."

Granny pinched her lips together and started fussing with that kitchen rag again. After a pause, she shook her head.

"No, that was Colette. Isobel's mother. Isobel got her beauty, inner and outer, from Mrs. Rose. They were both kind, clever women, too good for the men they were tied to. Mr. Rose was unwise with his money and fell in a bad way, he pressed Isobel into an ugly marriage with a powerful man to save his own skin. No one knows all the details, but Mrs. Rose abandoned her husband when Isobel was murdered by that monster, and she took her granddaughter with her."

Jefferson frowned. "Are you telling me that Isobel was the Countess of Shadowhearst? That sounds just like that old ghost story-

"It wasn't a ghost story! I-" Granny snapped her mouth shut, swallowing. "Just take the blasted tea out Jefferson, I have work to do!"

Ruby thought it wise to slip out of the kitchen then and come back after a time. Because if she didn't know better, she'd say it looked like Granny was about to start crying...


	7. Chapter 7

While Mr. Gold showed them the house, Belle told snips from stories she remembered Gram mentioning. That vase there had been a wedding gift, actually, from her Aunt Imogen. The carpet in this room was replaced because it was utterly ruined by a pack of hunting dogs that burst in stamping mud everywhere. Her bedroom had been papered in deep blue, which was still there, though Mr. Gold had been using it as his rooms so he said it would be understandable that the wouldn't be permitted inside.

Oddly enough, Mrs. Finch seemed very knowledgable about Avonlea House. Not like Belle, just odd little things. She knew the home had been abandoned for five years, and that the former mistress of the house had been responsible for the move. ("Consumption, you know. They hoped a stay in a dryer climate would help, but she passed away regardless.) She knew that very little of the the items in the house could have belonged to Gram, because everything that wasn't nailed down and then some was put up for auction to cover the debts Mr. Rose had left upon his deathbed. ("Terrible investor, swindled out of a fortune in a false business venture.") And then there was the library...

Belle, for one, didn't care that the books hadn't been touched by Gram's hands. Because the second-story room was full of large bookshelves absolutely filled with tomes, and large bay windows overlooking the blooming late spring gardens. There was a window bench that Belle would love nothing better than to curl up on and read, but that would be rather impolite to do in a stranger's home while he gave her a tour, she supposed.

Gold looked at her oddly, but smiled and gave a flick of his wrist, indicating the titles around them. "You can look if it pleases you, Miss French. My home is hardly a museum."

Merida sniggered: "Forgive me for saying this, but if you let her start looking, Miss French won't stop until she's worked through your entire library."

"That hardly bothers me," he shrugged, indicating the tea the footman-Jefferson, she thought,-was entering with. "Though perhaps you would like to join us for some refreshments before you vanish into the world of literature."

Belle bit her lip to keep from giggling aloud, and if she didn't know better, she'd say the habit she'd had since childhood charmed Mr. Gold.

It was a testament to Belle's powers of observation, (or rather, lack thereof,) that she only noticed the painting sitting on the sofa, propped against the back, when she turned around with a full cup of tea.

Her own eyes gazed back at her.

"Oh!" The cup slipped from Belle's hands in shock. "O-oh my goodness! Oh, M-Mr. Gold, I'm so sorry-I was-I just wasn't expecting..."

_That._

It wasn't Gram. That much Belle knew. Gram had a much higher forehead, wide=set brown eyes, slightly less full lips, and a stronger jaw. This was a young woman her own age...with her own blue eyes...and her own softer features, dressed in a gorgeous old gown of deep blue, a neckline cutting low over her modest bust and trimmed generously with creamy white lace. It was as if someone had secret done her portrait and tucked it away in the attic of Mr. Gold's house.

The gentleman in question seemed quite taken aback too. He tore his wide brown eyes from the portrait to her, blinked at her stammering, and only then regained his senses. Jefferson swooped in with a towel and mopped up her spill, whisking away the shattered cup from her feet. Oh. Goodness. She broke his cup...and it was such a lovely set too.

"I-I'm so sorry, forgive my clumsiness," she swallowed. "I'll pay you for the cup."

"Ah, no matter," he shook his head, suddenly behaving like she had a third eye and didn't want to be rude by staring at it. "It's only a cup."

Merida took a sip from her own undamaged cup and hummed, raising her eyebrows at the portrait. "Well it seems there's a family resemblance," she observed.

"That's...not my great-grandmother," Belle faltered. "I'm not sure..."

Mrs. Finch daintly set her cup down on the table the tea tray rested on. She approached the painting with a curious little noise.

"I'm sure you suspect who Miss Rose is," she said, contemplating the portrait with her chin cupped in her hand. "Your grandmother, isn't she? Isobel Rose."

"That's Miss Rose?" Gold rasped. "Miss French's-No, no that's not possible."

"Mrs. Lucas said she was murdered at the..." Jefferson, who had started strongly, stopped slowly, turning quite pale. "That's not possible."

Mrs. Finch may have rolled her eyes, Belle couldn't be sure, the portrait had arrested her attention again. Gram had spoken about her daughter so little, Belle could count the instances on one hand. It always caused a look of extreme anguish to cross her weathered face, and so she knew very little about the woman who birthed her mother. The one time Gram had mentioned her daughter willingly, Belle had been but nine.

"Your mother named you Belle for your beauty, my little darling. I sometimes fancy it was her way of honoring the mum she never knew, though."

_That's not possible._

Both Mr. Gold, and Jefferson, had said that in a short period of time, gazing in mounting dread at the portrait as Mrs. Finch turned to them with a cool expression.

"Entirely possible, just highly not likely," she corrected. "Miss French, have you ever heard the story of how your grandmother came to leave the country in favor of the colonies? Few women of fortune would do such a thing, don't you think?"

Belle's standard answer to that implication was always that her Gram was a remarkable, strong-willed woman. And it had come up often; For why would Colette Rose Franke, the refined and educated Englishwoman, ever want to go to Australia to raise her granddaughter rather than the Continent? Or America, perhaps? Now, and while it still meant that Gram was stronger than any common man would think a lady, it did look rather odd, didn't it?

"I take it you, Mr. Gold, have met Miss Rose?"

"Now that would be impossible," Merida interjected. "You've all said she was dead, haven't you?"

Belle looked to Gold. He was very pale, and when his eyes met hers...it gave Belle a chill. He had called her Miss Rose when he had first lain eyes upon her. The police had said she matched a woman's description perfectly, a murderess in the abandoned Shadowhearst estate. If her grandmother, thought to be dead, were alive...but she would've been over seventy. No matter how lovely a woman Gram had been throughout her long and fulfilling life, no one retained silken chestnut curls and the fresh face of a woman come of age when they were three-quarters of a century old or better. It was impossible.

And yet...

"The estate next to ours, Shadowhearst Manor," Gold began, running his tongue over thin lips. "Months ago, my son and his friends met a woman in the gardens that said she lived in the home. I was-I saw her there, often. She was real enough to touch, to speak. The day before you arrived in town, she fled from me, and a boy the children played with was dragged into the mansion by a dark figure. When two of my employees went to investigate before the police were called, they found a freshly murdered corpse in the foyer of an abandoned house. That woman was Miss Rose, I would stake my life on it. I swear she was real."

Mrs. Finch nodded. "Her spirit is."

Merida narrowed her eyes. "Spirits? Are you mad? There's no such things as spirits and witches and nonsense like that!""

"Oh, I don't like titles, really. I suppose you could classify me, however, as a psychic medium."

Articles about Harry Houdini and men of science debunking the claims of Americans declaring their supernatural ability danced in Belle's mind. That was all...parlor tricks and confidence games to prey on mournful family members. Wasn't it? A well-meaning old widow had tried to thrust a spirit board upon Belle after Gram died, but she refused as kindly as she could. Somehow...Mrs. Finch's belief was far more trustworthy.

"You would have me believe that we all saw a ghost," Mr. Gold said, not sounding convinced at all. "And how would you know that, Mrs. Finch? Did the ghost speak to you, then? Tell you secrets from the other side of the veil?"

"Not _quite_ , Mr. Gold. Rather, I can always tell where I'm needed. It is a bit odd, you must admit, that the last living descendant of Isobel Rose comes to the village just as her spirit is sighted."

Miss French risked a glance at Mr. Gold. "Is it a ghost you accused of murder?"

"No!" he denied, looking like the idea was as absurd as it sounded rolling of Belle's own tongue. "Of course not! Miss Rose, o-or whoever, was with me when August was kidnapped. I know she was innocent, but that fool Nottingham is hardly the sort to take the harder path to a solution, is he?"

"August?" Mrs. Finch interrupted. "A little boy, red hair, freckles? His father is a stableman?"

"Yes," Gold nodded, then frowned. "Oh come now madam. The child is a ghost, too?"

"Spirit."

"What's the difference?" Jefferson asked, and Belle forgot he was there, really. "Ghost or spirit? It's two sides of the same coin, isn't it, ma'am?"

" _Ghost_ is really such a dismissive word, like calling a woman a girl when she's in her twenties. I prefer spirit, it covers a broader range of subjects."

"That's all very fascinating, but what does that have to do with a murderer and my grandmother?" Belle asked, twisting her fingers together as was another nervous habit of hers.

Mrs. Finch smiled and spread her black-gloved fingers.

"There's a very simple way to prove my theory. All spirits that reach out have an unfinished business, whether of their own making, or involving a loved one, not unlike the living. I propose a gathering in the gardens of Shadowhearst, and we ask Miss Rose herself what her business is."

Gold wrinkled his nose. "You propose a séance?"

"Yes. Oh, I shan't be using one of those spirit boards," Mrs. Finch assured. "There's no telling who might answer. If, Miss French and Mr. Gold, you are amendable, I would ask you to meet me in the gardens next door at sunset. And perhaps bring Mrs. Lucas along, if she wouldn't mind too terribly."

"Mrs. Lucas? Whatever for?" Mr. Gold asked. his brow furrowing.

"Mrs. Lucas knew Miss Rose," Jefferson explained. "When I went to fetch the tea, sir, she said she'd known both Miss French's foremothers, if you will, when they lived in this house. She has been in service in one state or other for most of her life, likely she was a kitchen maid at the time."

Mrs. Finch nodded. "If you need only convince her she will be unharmed, tell her that it's the only chance Miss Rose has of finding peace. For I do believe it is."

* * *

"Have your brains turned to rotten pudding in your skulls?! I wouldn't step foot on that bloody property for all the gold in the world, _including_ yourself, sir!"

As expected, the cook was far from cooperative.

"Don't you know what happened in that house? Murders! Dozens of murders by one man's hands in a bloody rampage! You're messing with forces beyond your control, and I want no part of it!" she bellowed, swiping the knife she'd been using to dice up vegetables for soup around to illustrate her unflinching determination to stay away. "You pay my wages but you can't force me to do a blasted thing outside of this kitchen!"

Mr. Gold leaned back maybe a centimeter or two from the knife whipping about, but otherwise remained impassive. Merida would gladly give him credit for that courage, however, she was still not convinced this Finch lady wasn't a complete madwoman. The painted face and the purple dresses were odd enough before she'd started prattling about ghosts.

The only thing that kept Merida from pulling Belle out the house, (and she was small enough that Merida wagered she could toss her over her shoulder and run,) was that portrait the maid brought down and the fact that the first time someone mentioned "Miss Rose" was at the police station. Graham was far most trustworthy than Nottingham, and he gave a perfect description of Belle...or the portrait.

And here Merida had been hoping for a quiet holiday away from her family and those daft suitors...

"Mrs. Lucas," Gold said with remarkable calm. "I said, and I quote, _'We have business at Shadowhearst Manor that requires your help,'_ at which point you began shouting. So I will rephrase that. Did you work here in Avonlea House when Miss Rose was living here, or rather, at Shadowhearst?"

Mrs. Lucas gave him a look that would likely have curdled milk.

"So what if I did? Ask anyone and they'll tell you before her murder I was living in the village with a newborn and a husband."

"And before that?"

Merida wondered if holding the woman at gunpoint would make her more compliant. No. Likely she'd start throwing knives around and cursing them. She stayed quiet, and so did Belle. And the girl, likely her granddaughter, who was quietly tending to a pot of sauce on the stove.

Mrs. Lucas narrowed her eyes into tiny slits behind her spectacles. And then she let her steely gaze drift over to Belle, and her eyes dropped to the floor.

"Lady Huntsford was hardly older than I was when I worked at the manor," she muttered. "I had been there two years as a kitchen maid. Lord Huntsford never dare sully his fine clothes sniffing around the kitchens, but there wasn't a girl to step foot under that roof seeking employment as a housemaid that didn't have her innocence taken. Some of them willingly, others pulled into dark corners or empty rooms. His mother bore him late in life, just when they began despairing they'd never have an heir. He was afforded every luxury, and if he weren't graced with fine looks and charm unsuited to his character, he would've been called an Ogre. If he took a fancy to a girl, he would have her. So when his father died and he became Gerald Grosvenor, 4th Earl of Huntsford, he decided to find himself the fairiest lady and make her his bride. Isobel Rose was clever, beautiful, kind, and everything light in the world. She and her mother managed the Rose family's finances, otherwise, Maurice Rose would've driven them into the poorhouse with bad investments. And nothing a living soul can say will convince me Rose didn't sell his daughter to the Earl for a fat sum of money and the prestige of having an aristocrat in the family."

The old woman's gaze softened slighty at Belle.

"I imagine she was your grandmother, wasn't she? I would have sworn it was her ghost in the hallway when I first saw you, miss. I had..." she glanced at the little girl, who was quite clearly eavesdropping. " _Married_ , Ruby's grandfather by then. I had left Shadowhearst to live in the village, not long after a footman had been arrested for murder. Jones was always bragging about his exploits as a sailor, and always pursing some maid around the house. Then one maid was stabbed in the courtyard, and he'd pushed your grandmother down the stairs, before murdering Mr. Merrin, the butler. It wasn't a surprise he'd been arrested, really. But then, Huntsford murdered the entire household. They think he started in the stables, where the stableman and his boy had been helping their lady hide her books. Huntsford had taken to burning them and shredding the pages as he found them as a punishment for some percieved wrongdoing. Once Marco and his boy were killed, he must've gone back into the house and killed anyone he'd seen with a knife. Except Isobel. She had been thrown out the window or jumped, they found her dead in the courtyard. Mrs. Rose was horrified and it wasn't long after they buried her daughter that she left the village with Isobel's baby. The only person left alive in the house."

Belle bit her lip, twisting her fingers in the way that Merida had identified as her nervous habit. "My mum. She...she died when I was very young, the fever. My great-grandmother raised me but she never wanted to talk about her daughter."

"I wouldn't blame her," Mrs. Lucas nodded, slowly dicing up the vegetables left in front of her. "Mr. Rose spent the rest of his days, for what there were, alone in this house. Several servants turned in their notice as soon as the murder of their Miss Rose happened, the rest left after his wife. A new staff was hired on and they said that the old fool was completely mad with grief and guilt. He'd vanish for days until they realized where he went. Shadowhearst Manor. He'd be sitting in the garden holding court with the air, and had to be dragged home. They said he thought he was speaking to Isobel in the gardens, and that he was trying to bring her home but she wouldn't leave. Eventually they locked him in his rooms and a doctor was brought in, but he had a heart attack overnight and that was the end of his tale."

Mr. Gold seemed to glance upstairs, and Mrs. Lucas snorted.

"You aren't sleeping in a dead man's bed, sir, don't worry."

"Small comforts, I suppose," he muttered, and Merdia swallowed back a laugh. This was utterly _mad_. No wonder an odd girl like Belle's family had come from this village!

"Mrs. Lucas," Mrs. Finch began slowly. "Did they ever find the murder weapon? A long knife?"

"Hmm...I don't think they did," the cook frowned then, looking down at the kitchen knife in her hand before holding it up as an example. "They didn't find the knife the earl had used, but I know exactly what Jones used. It was a dagger about this size here. The blade was crooked, wavy. There were inscriptions on the blade that I could never discern as writing or art, a carved handle, and a ruby in the pommel. Jones had showed it off when he first arrived, claiming it was recovered from a pirate ship. Come to think of it...I don't think they ever recovered the weapon when they came to arrest him."

Mrs. Finch gave a slow, red-lipped smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Lucas, for your cooperation. Tonight we shall be in the gardens, do join us if you please."

Shaking her head, Mrs. Lucas scowled. "It pleases me not to, thank you."

Leaving the cook to her work, Merida trailed beside Belle as they left the kitchens for the upstairs.

"The same goes for you all," Mrs. Finch added as they walked. "You needn't come to the gardens tonight if you don't wish to, I myself will be trying to contact Miss Rose. I believe the dagger is the key, but I'll know more tonight. For now I must go collect Regina from Mr. Locksley's capable hands."

Gold raised his eyebrows. "Do you mean, Mrs. Finch, that you spirited Regina out from under her mother's nose for a clandestine meeting with her sweetheart?"

"Does that offend your Victorian sensibilities, Mr. Gold?"

He grinned wide enough for Merida to see a gold-capped tooth she hadn't noticed before.

"Sensibilities are for those too old to change, and those unwilling to open their eyes to sense. I would advise you to be cautious, however, or you are likely to recieve a personal letter of thanks from our dear Miss Mills, included with a wedding invitation."

Merida and Belle left in the Mills carriage with Mrs. Finch. Lord knows where the American had left the lovers. Before they left, waiting outside for the carriage, Merida saw Belle pull Mr. Gold aside. They hadn't talked for long, and she couldn't hear them, but she couldn't help but think that they looked like a pair of lovestruck school children, with the older gentleman unable to meet Belle's blue eyes without fidgeting and Belle's cheeks turning a shade of pink when he did look.

There were no less than three gentleman, plus Nottingham, who had made fools of themselves in front of pretty Belle French during Merida's acquaintance with her. But Gold was the first man to have Belle equally flustered.

She was likely half in love with him for the size of his library, Merida thought with a snicker.

* * *

Gold had been drawn back by Miss French as they waited on the carriage to come 'round. She had hesitated only a moment before asking, then: "Will you be attending Mrs. Finch's, ah, _gathering_ , tonight in the gardens?"

"I imagine so," he nodded. "Miss Ro-Lady Hunts-Um, the lady in question, has been nothing but kind to my son and I. I...would like to see her find her peace."

Miss French, for never having met this mysterious woman, had quite inherited that fetching way of nibbling her lower lip and tilting her head when she had a question. Sure enough, she promptly asked him: "What is she like? My grandmother?"

Gold looked down at his polished shoes, gathering his scattered thoughts.

"She is...kind, clever. Beautiful. Brilliant. Rather like..." he paused, meeting blue eyes that somehow seemed...brighter, than those of Miss Rose's. Perhaps he had been so blinded by affection he hadn't noticed before, but facing Miss Rose was like facing the portrait upstairs. Perfectly lovely, but an imitation of life.

And yet, it seemed incredibly foolish to say _"like you,"_ when he only knew one woman's spirit and the other he'd only met a day before.

"Rather wonderful, really," he finished lamely, giving her a smile. "A wonderful woman. Most admirable."

Miss French's face turned a lovely pink tint, her lips forming an "o" and she looked down immediately to her nervous fingers. She was certainly a woman to be admired, too, but surely the only interest she had in a man at least twenty years her senior was the promise of an adventure found only in Gothic novels...


	8. Chapter 8

Merida thought this was a lot of nonsense, and yet, she still came when Mrs. Finch arrived to take them to Shadowhearst Manor. Belle wondered if she was being a good friend or simply curious but not wanting to admit it.

They arrived and Belle felt her stomach twist as soon as she lay eyes on the mansion. Even when she tried to imagine the grounds tidied and the building restored, it reeked of sinister history. The very windows seemed to be sucking in the light of the setting sun. Which window had her grandmother leapt from? Or had she been pushed?

The carriage driver seemed reluctant to leave three ladies in front of the "Murder House", but a handful of pound notes thrust in his direction overcame his sense of chivalry quickly. The gardens were 'round back, rimmed by a riotously overgrown wall of hedges. There was a sculpture of Diana atop an empty marble fountain, which seemed ironic given what Belle now knew about the estate's sordid history. The flowerbeds were surprisingly tidy, with early summer roses bringing colors to the forgotten little garden.

Mrs. Finch did a walk around the garden, and Merida gave the roses a cursory look. Belle stepped out of the garden walls and noticed a faint path tramped in the high grass towards the back of the propery where she could just... _just_ make out flashes of white amidst the woods and brush.

What could _that_ be?

She walked along the path until she began to make out a low iron fence...and...headstones. A burial site. A private cemetary, tucked away at the back of the property, as returned to nature as the gardens, completely abandoned...

Except for a silent, slender black figure standing there in the gateway.

For a moment Belle was certain it was a ghost, (spirit, a little voice at the back of her mind corrected,) only her soft gasp was far louder than she assumed it was. Mr. Gold turned, looking surprised as she, both hands clasped atop his cane. His features relaxed quickly, and he bowed his head politely, a soft curtain of gray-threaded hair falling around his face.

"Miss French. I didn't expect to see you here yet."

Belle smiled. "We just arrived, thank you," she replied, her hands smoothing invisible creases from her pale blue dress. "I wasn't aware there was a private cemetary."

Mr. Gold shrugged. "Miss Rose, uh, that is...when we walked about the property, her and I, she had said once she used to come here often. I've never actually been this far alone, I was just..." he hesitated, fiddling with the handle of his cane. Belle was beginning to think Mr. Gold had "fiddly fingers" like her own, when he was nervous. She also suspected her was more than mere acquaintances with Miss Rose. To be honest, she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that particular possibility, but neither was Mr. Gold unless she were mistaken.

She approached him quietly and, feeling daring, linked their arms together as if they were about to stroll through the park. He looked at her as if she'd pinched him instead and Belle almost giggled.

"Shall we go then?"

Mr. Gold blinked. And then nodded.

And so off they went--stepping over the fallen wooden gate and into the final resting place of generations of aristocrats.

It was as foreboding as one would expect. Belle was not given to superstitions, but she did expect a goblin to leap up from somewhere and frighten them to death. They walked down the nearly forgotten path, past ancient pieces of stone, some old enough that the names and dates were worn away. Others were thickly covered with moss and lichen, and one had been broken by a heavy limb years ago that now lay rotting around the broken chips of marble. There was the occasional statue or toppled vase decorating the burial sites, but Belle paid very little attention to these.

At the very back, front and center one might go so far as to say, sat the Earls of Shadowhearst and their wives. Belle realized with a bit of detachment that they were her ancestors...

"Are you alright, Miss French? You've gone pale."

Belle shivered, unconsciously huddling closer to Mr. Gold's side. "I-I suppose it's all a bit overwhelming. Because the last of them,"-she tilted her head towards the Earls large, monolithic headstones,-"trapped an innocent girl as his bride, I am their descendant. Descended from wealthy, corrupt aristocrats that ultimate bred a monster that sired my mother."

Mr. Gold was very quiet for a long moment, then he smiled, patting her arm.

"There is more to a family than blood, Miss French. You could be sired by a most disreputable scoundrel that forced himself upon your mother, and you still needn't claim him as family."

Belle studied his gentle face. "You sound as though you are speaking from experience."

"I am. My father was forced to marry my mother because of me. He was not a very good man, nor a good father. The best thing he did for me was abandon me. Perhaps these were the ancestors of your grandfather in a way, but they have no power over what makes you Miss Belle French of Australia."

Belle chuckled softly, standing up straight in what she hoped was a very dignified manner. "That would be Miss Belle French of French Mining Company, gold heiress, I'll have you know."

"Gold heiress, are you now?" Mr. Gold sniggered. "There is irony everywhere in this turn of conversation."

A feeling of warmth bubbled up inside of Belle at how merry Mr. Gold's deep brown eyes had turned, the cheerful, soft lines around them and the boyish smile. She surely looked like a fool grinning back at him, her face felt quite hot and she looked away to try and hide whatever blush might be burning there in her cheeks.

She wished she hadn't.

Her eyes fell directly on one of the freshest stones, likely the freshest, in the cemetery. It was in almost eerily good condition, though smaller than the Earl's before. The 4th Earl of Huntsford and Lord of Shadowhearst Manor, Gerald Grosvenor. Belle's. And beside it was the equally well-preserved stone that was inscribed:

 _**Isobel Marie Rose Grosvenor** _  
_**1829-1848** _

Beside Belle, Mr. Gold stiffened and his breath caught in his throat. She turned to see his throat convulse as he swallowed thickly, the color draining from his angular face and the whites of his eyes showing. It would be an understatement to say he'd seen a ghost. Belle gave his arm a gentle squeeze that made him jerk, whipping his head towards her.

"F-Forgive me..." he stammered. "I...i-it isn't...I think I'm only just starting to believe that Miss Rose was not...real. Alive. She was...she was so..."

"Admirable?" Belle said lightly.

Mr. Gold's gaze bored into hers until he blinked, turning back to the grave.

"Very. The first time we discussed literature she tried to convince me why Emma Woodhouse was more than a shallow young heiress with excellent intentions."

"I'm not sure which part of that statement I find more difficult to believe. That you discussed Austen with a spirit, that my grandmother was a fellow bibilophile, or that you've read Austen at all."

Some of the heaviness in Mr. Gold's eyes lightened, a bit.

"To each his own, Miss French. You could hardly have me believe you've only browsed frivolous romances and poetry."

Belle wished she could form a proper retort, but then from behind them, Merida's voice called: "Belle! Belle! Are you in the graveyard? Belle? Now see here I am not stepping into a forgotten burial plot on a haunted estate so if you have been killed you will just have to stay there, d'ye hear me!"

Mr. Gold chuckled quietly even as Belle's face heated again, this time from embarrassment.

"Your companion is quite an interesting character."

"Merida is... _yes_ ," she nodded. "Quite. Her mother was Gram's goddaughter, I visited them in Scotland first when I arrived. She had decided that I could not be allowed to wander the English countryside alone, and I could hardly refuse her company."

"And her father allowed this?"

"Oh, Mr. Gold," Belle shook her head. "They wouldn't stop her if they tried, which they did not. Why, Mr. Dunbroch likely taught Merida how to wield the pistol she has tucked in her handbag."

Mr. Gold stopped on the path they'd been walking, giving Merida a wary glance where she stood leaning over the fence, craning her neck to get a better look at them. Sure enough, her purse was in her hands. Belle bit her lip when the man turned to her and asked in a very low voice: "This is going to be an eventful evening."

For the life of her, Belle could not explain the shiver that ran up her spine.

* * *

If there were more unchaperoned young ladies like Miss French and Miss Dunbroch, then there would be less of a stigma about their traveling alone, surely. No. That wasn't quite fair. Miss Dunbroch had an _efficient_ chaperone right there in her handbag.

Mrs. Finch had tugged a rusty, wrought iron table from one corner of the garden to the stone pavers near the fountain, including two of the usable chairs. Gold would give credit where credit was due, despite her painted face and wine-colored gown, Mrs. Finch was a very efficent woman. She had settled in one of the chairs, heedless of the rust and wobbly leg, three candles lit on the table, and a white circle around the whole setting. (Mrs. Lucas, it would seem, refused to attend.) Two people would have to sit on the edge of the fountain, which would be Miss Dunbroch and Miss French, while Gold took the remaining chair. He had ended up sitting on Miss French's right hand side. Fancy that.

"Now," Mrs. Finch said, holding her hands out to Gold on her left, and Miss Dunbroch on her right. "Join hands and focus on the candles. Do not speak, do not move, do not break the circle unless I say you can. Stay within the salt ring until the end of the seance...to be safe."

Gold glanced around. Indeed, there was a ring of salt sprinkled around them. Mrs. Finch had even trailed the salt over the rim of the fountain. He recalled one of his maiden aunts once speaking about salt repelling goblins and faeries. Perhaps there was some truth to this precaution?

Obediently, Gold held the extended hands of Mrs. Finch, and Miss French. The latter's hand was so tiny and soft in her dainty white glove that he was afraid to squeeze too hard. Once all hands were joined, Mrs. Finch lowered her head and shut her eyes.

She said nothing.

Gold had been to one séance in London, when a client that believed heavily in spiritualism dragged him to a medium in order to contact his deceased business partner for advice. The psychic then had been a thin tall woman with a shock of white hair and a thick fur coat, and there was too much drama involved. That, and Madam de Ville had moaned and wailed far too much. Glancing at the two young ladies present, they also seemed puzzled by the lack of theatrics.

And then the wind stirred.

Just a soft breeze. At first. Enough to make the candles flicker. Gold thought nothing of it until the breeze grew cold, and then stilled.

Mrs. Finch lifted her head, glancing just over Gold's shoulder in a way that made it very hard not to look. Her blue eyes drifted as though following something, and then suddenly she frowned. Gold met Miss Dunbroch and Miss French's eyes, but they were as confused as he was. Until a bright blue spark hovered about five feet off the ground, there above the table.

Gold's heart stuttered in his chest.

"Am I speaking to Isobel Rose?" Mrs. Finch asked lowly. "Show yourself, Isobel. We mean you no harm, rather, we wish to help you move on to the afterlife."

The spark did not move.

"Isobel Rose. Please. Show us a sign that you're listening."

Nothing.

"You're already acquainted with Mr. Gold, I believe," Mrs. Finch said. "I am Mallory Finch, and these young ladies are-"

The spark _moved_.

In fact, it fairly shot down and directly into Miss French's chest with a flash and a collective gasp from the audience. The young woman's head snapped back so quick and so forcefully that Gold feared she'd broken her neck, but then, her head leaned forwards again, blue eyes shut.

They weren't blue when she opened them; Her eyes were milky white. And Miss French's head turned towards Gold, her head tilting to the side in a way he immediately identified as not one of her own mannerisms. It was similar to...

" _Mr. Gold_..." a thin voice that reverberated, as though two women were speaking at once. " _M-Mr. Gold_...?"

"Oh good Lord..." Merida breathed, her eyes huge and her mouth gaping. "Belle? Belle what are you doing, what's happened?"

Miss French turned back to Merida, knitting her brow.

" _Who's Belle_?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wee bit of a non-con here in non-graphic flashback form. It's in the italics when you get down there.

Miss Rose.

Gold had thought, often, that the resemblance between Miss French and Miss Rose was uncanny. But then Miss French became...possessed, and it was entirely bizarre. When Miss Fr-Miss R-When she stood, Miss Dunbroch reached to pull her back but Mrs. Finch held up a hand, demanding patience from a very impatient and worried person.

She came to stand by Gold, an arm's length away, regarding him with blank, flat eyes before looking down at her, that is, Miss French's small hands. She tugged off her right glove and turned her hand over, looking at the creases lining her palm. Her milky-white eyes looked back to Gold, who couldn't move and could scarce breathe when a warm little hand cupped his cheek.

A frission of warmth shot down his spine at the soft touch. The scent of dewy roses washed over his senses and the cold knot of fear in his gut slackened.

_Miss Rose..._

"Isobel...you, er," Mrs. Finch faltered. "You are Belle. Her's is the body you inhabit. Please, tell us your business on this Earth and-"

"I'm sorry," the two feminine voices whispered, eyes never leaving Gold's. "I'm so sorry, I was so lonely...I never meant to hurt you...please, please leave, now, before you become trapped in this horrid place..."

Gold swallowed, finding a speck of courage he didn't know existed. "I will not leave you, not here. How do we set you free? Tell me and I'll do everything I can to aid you, love."

Their face crumpled and she pressed their forehead to his. Her breath was cold, chilling his lips where they nearly met, noses touching. Gold would. He would give anything, anything but his son, to help this woman find peace that had so eluded her in life.

"Oh...oh my darling, how I wish I could have met you before..." she breathed, pressing a kiss to the corner of Gold's mouth. Her lips were icy, but so very soft-

"I beg your pardon, but would you kindly refrain from expressing your affection with my friend's mouth?" Miss Dunbroch protested from her seat, looking highly disapproving. "That's hardly proper manners, is it?"

Gold hoped he hadn't started blushing like a schoolboy.

Miss Rose seemed hardly interested in propriety, however. Her hand came to brush Gold's hair back and touch his shoulders, anywhere she could, really, seeming to drink every texture in greedily. Her eyes never left his face even as Mrs. Finch began speaking to her again.

"You said you were trapped here, how did that happen?"

"The house...there...he brought evil to the house and left it behind."

"Who did?"

"Killian Jones...a footman, he hurt a maid...an-and pushed me down the stairs..." a wrinkle appeared between her brows, caused by deep thought. "He murdered the butler, and he was taken away but the evil remained...the earl took...h-he took it a-and...and it _festered_..."

Mrs. Finch hesitated a moment. "Lord Huntsford, you mean. Your husband?"

A dark look passed over Miss French's face that Gold thought, perhaps, might be the emotions of both women at once. "He was only my husband in name, never in nature. Jailer. Attacker. Monster."

The temperature dropped again, and the candles flickered out. The anger in Mrs. French's face turned to fear and everyone still seated leapt to their feet. Mrs. Finch grabbed a large carpet bag Gold hadn't noticed and opened a jar filled with white granules of salt. She drew Merida away from the edge of the fountain and poured a handful of salt between her cupped hands that the younger lady accepted with a look of confusion.

"Quickly--" Mrs. Finch orderered, sprinkling salt on the ground by the base of the fountain. "The circle must be reinforced, he's seeking out any weakness. No gaps!"

Miss Dunbroch hesitantly complied, taking her salt and trailing it on the existing semi-circle on the ground, so that they were met with an uneven shape of the stuff all over the ground around them in a thick line. Miss French's body pressed closer to Gold, her cold little hand finding his. Miss French had started so warmly, but she was growing colder as time wore on in this strange, unearthly exercise. What if she should freeze?

"It's the Darkness," she stammered. "I-it lives in the house, in the dagger. Jones didn't know what he had, didn't know the evil inside it. It latches on to him as a means to murder and destroy, to create chaos. With him gone, it must have chosen Grosvenor as its next host. H-he was never kind, but he became something else entirely when Jones left...f-for a time, when I was pregnant, he was almost cheerful b-but then I-"

"Had a daughter," Mrs. Finch surmised, with a sniff. " _Men_."

There was a sound, then, like someone tapping on glass with a finger. A hollow, ringing, clinking sort of sound. _Dink...dink...dink..._

Miss Dunbroch stepped closer to Gold and Belle then, drawing out a small pistol from her purse and drawing the hammer back with a click as she gazed around warily. Not even the sight of the firearm that had made him so nervous mere minutes ago...had it really been mere minutes ago?...was not enough to draw his fear from that spine-chilling noise.

_Dink...dink..._

Mrs. Finch drew a bible out of her bag, then, flipping to a dog-eared page as Gold asked: "What the devil is that sound?!" His voice was far higher than he'd like it to be.

"Precisely who I fear it is," Miss Dunbroch muttered, her voice also pitched high. "Bloody spiritualism..."

"It's worse than the devil..." the voices of Miss French and Miss Rose wobbled, and Gold noticed she was looking behind them...in the direction of the house...and the tall, black human shape standing with its toes resting just an inch off the outside of the salt ring, one hand raised to strike a shadowy finger against the air where the salt had erected some sort of invisble wall.

_Dink._

Merida Dunbroch, without the slightest hesitation, turned and fired two flawless shots at the beast. _**Bang! Bang!**_ To no effect.

"What is _that_?!" she demanded as Mrs. Finch began to read aloud from the bible.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul-"

The shadow disipated and crashed against the invisible wall with a hollow clanging sort of noise and Gold could feel the air become charged, rippling over his skin unpleasantly.

"Hmm...that's interesting," Mrs. Finch hummed.

"Interesting?!" Gold and Miss Dunbroch both blurted out, before the young woman added: "Is that all you have to say?"

"Spirits only heed to their own beliefs," Mrs. Finch said, looking rather annoyed in the face of their fear of the literal unknown assaulting their protection. "I can't very well cast out a demon with the word of God if he doesn't believe in it!"

Miss Rose grabbed the lapels of Gold's coat, making him look into the white eyes that were starting to glow a dim shade of blue.

"You can't help me, darling, you have to let me go. Never return to Shadowhearst Manor, or the Darkness will reap your soul and leave you as trapped as everyone who perished in the house!"

Gold was a coward. He had spent his childhood cringing away from his father and bullies, bending to the cruel words of his unhappy wife in his short-lived marriage. But it was anathema, to him, to abandon this woman's spirit to the mercy of a black, evil presence pounding against the shield as it was.

"There has to be something, anything. The knife brought the evil into the house, what if we took it out?"

"No! No, you can't touch the dagger, it will corrupt your soul! No one can touch...e-except for..."

"Except for who? Who?"

Miss French blinked, her eyes returning to blue, filled by tears, and she whimpered as she shivered all over.

"M-me..." she whispered, falling faint as a loud snap, crisp as a sheet in the wind, filled the air and the Darkness was driven back by a bright golden light shaped like a woman.

And everything went silent.

* * *

_There was no safe haven for Isobel since they'd left Avonlea House for the season. She was eighteen, and logically, Isobel knew that when she was introduced to society as an eligible young woman, there may be suitors. And there were several dashing young men that had approached her at the many balls held during the social season, asking for a dance. One or two even wished to speak with her, or at least to her, rather than just turn her about on their arm like a pretty accessory._

_And then Gerald Grosvenor, the Earl of Huntsford and Lord of Shadowhearst Manor, had set his sights upon her._

_Papa had encouraged him at every turn, but Isobel simply hadn't cared for the man. He was tall, dark, and handsome, rich and titled, the very sort of gentleman every girl dreamed of sweeping her away to his palatial estate. Only something about the man reeked of ugliness. It was in the way he gripped Isobel when she was coerced into a dance, how he didn't care for her polite refusals. He would be controlling, she could tell, if she allowed him a scrap of power over her head._

_Her father was either blind, or far more likely, simply uncaring. She had seen his accounts. There was a large drain in their modest income recently, another investment Papa likely thought was a sure thing but turned out to be another scam. His irresponsibility was the reason why Mama had taken over the books, but once in awhile he got around Isobel and she to waste their dwindling supply of money on a frivolous idea._

_Still, Isobel had thought that Papa would be of sterner stuff than to sell her like so much livestock to the highest bidder._

_She was_ wrong.

_Lord Huntsford had proposed marriage within two months. Isobel declined his offer, but unfortunately, as she had often heard her mother complain, many proper ladies rejected the first proposal whether they cared for the man or not. Which encouraged Lord Huntsford to propose again the very next day, adding that he had Papa's full blessing._

_Isobel rejected him again._

_When he proposed a third time, Isobel was beginning to feel like Elizabeth Bennet faced with the empty-headed Mr. Collins. She didn't want to marry him! And that's why she rejected him! Not because she was leading him on! Why couldn't he see that?_

_When they returned to Avonlea House, with London papers beginning to spread the news of the_ "Miss Isobel Rose" _who_ "considered herself too fair for the most eligible 4th Earl of Huntsford, Gerald Grosvenor," _Isobel considered a life as an old maid just to spite the_ "eligible bachelor". _Too fair indeed! Why was she painted as a cold-hearted woman when she was as the nymph Daphne, fleeing the unwanted attentions of the god Apollo when he refused to accept her denial?_

_Papa was upset, but Isobel was certain he'd get over it. She and Mama focused on juggling their remaining funds around to cover the gaps left by whatever mistake Papa had made, and she would come to regret that. She had ignored the chiding and lectures from Papa so much she stopped recognizing the warning signs._

_And then she was called into the parlor one day, where Papa stood sternly and told her in no uncertain terms that for the good of their family, she must marry Lord Huntsford. He would provide her parents with financial support, his wealthy lending herself security, couldn't she see? Why, such an odd girl as she that never socialized and spent all day curled up in the library reading was never going to find a handsome husband as well-off as Gerald Grosvenor. But Isobel still refused because fine looks and money could not make her love someone, and she could never love someone so shallow as Lord Huntsford, who hadn't acknowledged her existence until he was in need of a bride to secure an heir._

_"I will not marry him, Papa," she insisted, and he looked at her blankly._

_"You leave me no choice, Isobel," he shook his head as though she were unreasonable. "If you do not agree to Lord Huntsford's next proposal, then I shall have to commit your mother to an institution."_

_"An institution! Why would you do such a thing!" Isobel cried. "Mama isn't mad!"_

_"Well there's nothing I can do for it. She is getting in the way of my attempts at recovering our fortunes, and no woman in her right mind wouldn't want her daughter marrying an earl!"_

_"You think my mother mad?"_

_"I think that she could benefit from a doctor's advice, indeed, but I shan't do anything of the kind unless you agree."_

_Mama wasn't mad; She was smart. But men think clever women are the same as mad ones, didn't they? Her father was no different it would seem. And Isobel, for the sake of her mother, not wishing such a horrible fate for her, bowed her head in defeat._

_Lord Huntsford was sickeningly proud when she accepted his fourth proposal with a flat tone and blank eyes. They were married in June in a grand ceremony that left Isobel feeling like she was attending her own funeral, and was whisked away on a honeymoon she had no fond memories of regarding her husband, who spent his days out hunting and his evenings drinking with his companions, and the nights attempting to leave Isobel with a child. It was a most unpleasant experience where she all but lay there like a starfish on the bedspread with her nightgown shoved up above her hips. It hurt more often than not, and was far messier than she had expected._

_And then, when the honeymoon ended, she was brought back to the village of Storybrooke as the Countess of Huntsford, Lady of Shadowhearst Manor. Her prison._

_She received her mother's company scarcely. Huntsford (she would never call him Gerald, and he didn't mind because he had a revolting fascination with her calling him "m'lord",) was as controlling as she feared he would be, burning what books he could find in her room and locking the library out of spite. Not that he ever used it. He would go away often to hunt and lord knows what else, and when he returned he would be disappointed when Isobel was still barren. She had taken to praying for a child if only so that he would stop entering her rooms, taking her on the bed, and leaving her in a cooling, sticky puddle when he was finished._

_And that was only the first three months._

_The staff had taken pity on her, and Isobel had grown quite fond of them. After all, she was a prisoner, really, for all that she was their lady. It built a sense of cameraderie. The only exceptions were Huntsford's valet, and Isobel's newly hired ladies maid, a sharp-faced, daintily-built woman as austere as a nun. Isobel could only speak of the most shallow, benign things with her because she wasn't unconvinced she wasn't reporting back to Huntsford._

_The kindest of the staff were the dark-skinned butler, Mr. Merrin, who ran the house with the utmost efficiency and had been kind enough to move Isobel's remaining books himself to the stables. Marco, an older Italian and his little son August, were also close with Isobel. Marco was delighted when Isobel taught August to read and write, as he could never afford to send August to school and was unable to teach him on his own. Letters, something Isobel had taken for granted, were something very few of the staff understood. She had taken to teaching them at least their names, and one of her favorite students was Charlotte Wolfe, a young girl of just eighteen with dark hair and gray eyes._

_The kitchen was a safe place for Isobel. The garden too, but Huntsford never dared sully himself with grease or the grimy kitchen maids, even though Isobel was certain he was as faithful to her as a snake promising not to eat a rat. Charlotte was a kitchen maid, only a bit taller than Isobel with long arms and legs, and a bit clumsy. Mrs. Potts, the cook who always gave Isobel a slice of bread or a biscuit to eat, ("You're much too thin, love! Here, have a cup of tea, too.") had forbidden the girl from handling dishware for fear of chipping them._

_"I like Mrs. Potts," Charlotte confided one evening when Huntsford was away and Isobel could show her how to read rather than 'entertain' her husband. "But she's very strict, isn't she?"_

_"Her methods are stern, yes, but I think she means to teach you to be self-reliant. She's never fussed at you for something you_ didn't _do, has she?"_

_"No...I suppose not."_

_The only member of staff, besides LeFou and her maid, that Belle didn't like was Killian Jones, the new footman. He was a sailing man, perhaps from Ireland originally, and far too flirtatious for his own good. Mrs. Potts threatened to castrate him if he came near her girls in the kitchen, so he stuck to preying on the housemaids like Huntsford. One maid he was fond of, Tina Belton, had turned up stabbed in the courtyard one morning. She was alive, barely, but was sent home with her wages to recover._

_No one knew who had done it, and a new girl, of some Oriental descent, had been hired. They had all but put the manner behind them, but then, Isobel was pushed down the stairs one morning._

_She had struck her head, and lay in bed for nearly two weeks. She was grateful her husband had been away, because she felt so ill at the time the idea of his forcing himself into her room made her feel terrible. Her mother had come and visited almost everyday, but their last day when Huntsford had returned, Isobel suspected Mama knew she was unhappy in her marriage and that something was wrong._

_Then, poor Mr. Merrin was found dead on the staircase with Killian Jones' hand wrapped around the dagger in his chest. When the police took him away, Isobel had thought he'd taken the dagger with him._

_They had not..._

_Lord Huntsford's behavior darkened in the days afterwards. He spent more time curled up in his private study or away on hunting trips, but for one moment, he was pleased when Isobel discovered she was pregnant. He was almost kind, in fact, which Isobel had found more frightening than his casual cruelty. His interest in her was purely for the sake of his heir but at least while she was carrying their child he didn't come to her bedroom. It was a small but crucial mercy._

_At the same time she'd conceived, Charlotte had fallen pregnant. She had come to Isobel in tears saying she was being sacked, and since one of the groundskeeper's assistants, (a something-or-other Lucas, she thought,) left not a week after, she could only hope that they found a happier marriage than hers. With the literacy Isobel had taught Charlotte, maybe they'd find a better life away from service._

_Isobel's hope and optimism faltered when she gave birth to a healthy, beautiful baby_ girl.

 _Huntsford was incensed that she hadn't given birth to a son and practically tossed their child back at her when he held her for the first and only time. How a father could be so cruel...well...Isobel knew the answer to that, didn't she? Papa and Mama were forbidden from seeing her all throughout her pregnancy, and the last letter she received had been from Papa chiding Isobel:_ 'Perhaps we did not part ways on the best of terms, daughter, but how could you be so cruel as to forbid your own mother from seeing you at such a time?'

_He could burn in hell for all Isobel cared, as unladylike a thought as that was._

_For one week, Isobel had been left entirely alone. She wasn't sure where Huntsford was, LeFou was still there so not away. She had bundled her daughter up and taken her down to show the only friends she had left, the servants, and out to the gardens where August and Marco had met their little lady. August had made silly faces while Marco complimented Isobel for delivering such a beautiful, healthy baby._

_Strange, wasn't it, how the wealthy aristocrats had hurt Isobel far more than the lower classes they all scorned?_

_And then came the seventh day, a week since birthing her daughter. Isobel had gone to the stable, said good morning to Marco, collected a book and walked back to the mansion, intending to read for a bit while watching her daughter. Huntsford hadn't hired a nanny yet, perhaps thinking it would spite Isobel, but she couldn't care. Her daughter was a beautiful little joy, a light in her empty life. The least she could do was raise her herself._

_The first alert she had that something wasn't right was when, while her daughter slept, Isobel had gotten up to ring for tea. She walked down the hall when she heard a garbled sort of noise. Hurrying along, she found a...a body. LeFou was lying on the stairs, his thick neck slashed across, deep red blood oozing out into the carpet. His big dark eyes looked up at Isobel until they glazed over..._

_There was murderer in the mansion._

_Isobel dashed back to the nursery and scooped up her daughter, not daring to leave her alone. She sprinted off shouting, "Help! Help! Murder! Someone!"_

_She came around the corner to see a maid's fallen body on the floor, another one fallen beside her. A boot was pressing down on the maid's throat as she gurgled and twitched and Isobel looked up from the suddenly still body to the boot to the leg and body attacked..._

_It was her husband. With blood smearing his fine attire and a dagger in his hand. The dagger that had killed Mr. Merrin._

_His eyes were entirely black when he looked at her, his voice was a sibiliant hiss and he pointed the wavy tip of the dagger at Isobel, who clutched her baby closer to her in a fright._

_"You and the worm are next."_

_Isobel ran._

_She ran, and ran, and heard the heavy bootsteps of her husband behind her and ran further still. She ran until she realized she had gone to the very top floor she could, and that there was nowhere left to run...except the end of the hall. With Huntsford so close behind her Isobel swore he could grab her skirts, she dashed out the window and curled her body so that the back of her shoulder should break through the glass, shielding her now-wailing daughter from broken shards as they burst through..._

**_"Please, please let my daughter live..."_ **

* * *

Belle woke up feeling frozen wherever the warm body wasn't touching her, holding her close. Her sense of feeling returned first, identifying that she was laying limp in the arms of a...a _man_ , perhaps, one arm holding her to him while the other hand held her cheek. Then she heard a far-away voice whisper her name, and a closer voice cry out "Miss French! Miss French! Wake up!" and her heavy eye lids fluttered back.

Mr. Gold had seemed to have caught her when she fainted, for the very first time in her life, she might add. His bad leg likely meant she'd pulled them both down, since now they were sitting on the ground, her half-draped over his lap. There was nothing improper given the circumstances, but a drowsy little nonsensical part of Belle's mind wondered if it looked like a scandalous tableau, an unmarried young girl caught in the arms of a handsome older gentleman.

"Miss French? Miss French?" he gave her cheek a pat, not quite firm enough to be a slap. "That's right, that's right, good, wake up, good, come back to us now. Can you hear me?"

"I...can...wh-what happ-"

"Belle! Oh thank god!" Merida all but yanked Belle off of Gold and into a crushing hug that was tighter than the worst of Belle's corsets. "You're alive!"

"Um, yes...?"

Merida helped her to her feet, but Belle swayed, a most unsettling feeling of vertigo nearly knocking her to the ground all over again before Merida hooked an arm around her shoulders. Oh...goodness...she was going to be sick.

"How do you feel?" Mrs. Finch asked, lighting a candle and hold it up to Belle's face. "Cold? Dizzy? Faint?"

"Y-yes..."

"Good, that's perfectly normal."

Mr. Gold, on his own feet, folded both hands over the top of his cane and fixed Mrs. Finch with a dark glare. "I assure you, Mrs. Finch, that there is absolutely nothing normal or perfect about this situation, and anyone to suggest otherwise is completely mad."

Belle would agree.

"Aye," Merida said for her, giving a firm nod. "Just what did you do to her?"

"I did nothing. The spirit of Isobel Rose just inhabited-"

"I saw that! And I saw her gran's ghost kiss Mr. Gold, too, so start explaining the why rather than the what if you'd please!"

Belle looked at Mr. Gold, who had flushed a deep pink. Oh. Goodness...she'd taken a shine to a man courting the ghost of her grandmother. This couldn't possibly get any stranger, could it? A lover triangle between a living and dead woman, related by blood, and the man living next door to the haunted property. It was enough to make a lesser woman faint again.

Mrs. Finch focused those unsettling blue eyes on Belle. "What do you think, my dear?"

"I-I think..." Belle swallowed, memories of Isobel Rose's life swirling in her muddled brain. "I-I think I need to lie down. I-I don't feel so well."

Belle was hardly aware that she had been lifted up on Mr. Gold's horse and led away from Shadowhearst Manor. In fact, she was in a numb daze until Merida was leading her into a room-in Avonlea House,-and a maid was helping her strip off her dress in exchange for a nightgown and lying her on a bed. She stammered out some response to Merida's anxious questions, enough to put her poor friend at ease to leave the room.

The most terrifying part of this event wasn't that Belle was confused, though. She knew exactly what she needed to do. When she woke up the next morning she dressed in her clothes from the evening before, and slipped outside, walking back through the woods to Shadowhearst...


	10. Chapter 10

In the mid-morning light, there was nothing particularly upsetting about Avonlea House. According to Hamlet, at least, ghosts (spirits) vanished back from whence they came at at daybreak, though Miss French had also assumed demons feared the word of God. She wondered if spirits weren't religious, or only adhered to the same religion they followed in life. Would they need to call a rabbi if the spirits were of Jewish faith? What about Oriental spirits? Did Protestant ghosts resist Catholicsm, and vice versa? What force repelled the disgruntled spirit of an atheist?

It felt a dream, but Belle thought she had lived through a condensed version of Isobel's memories, like flipping through a picture book. When she did come back to herself, however, a memory she had forgotten reappeared from her own life. Long ago, Gram had sat Belle on her lap when she was perhaps three, showing her a collection of family photographs. Some were of Gram as a young lady. And one had been a picture that little Belle had thought was her mother.

_"Oh no, no love, that's my daughter. Her name was Belle too, well, Isobel. You know...she died, when your mummy was a baby. When she was brought to me, I wanted to protect her in every way I could because she was all that was left of my Isobel. That's why I came to Australia, and how I met your great-grandfather, you know."_

Gram had found Isobel's lifeless body, or someone had. And the crying babe still clasped in the arms of the dead mother. Gram abandoned her first husband, Maurice Rose, because it was his greed that put Isobel in that position and she wouldn't let him endanger their grandchild. There was the slight fact that perhaps her great-grandmother had been guilty of polygamy but that was a very minor issue in the face of everything else. Something about Belle's mother, and by extension, Belle herself, was important.

Although highly confusing, the possibilites kept Belle's nerves in check as she approached the front foor. The door was quite locked but Belle had come equipped with a handful of hairpins in her purse, and a memory of Gram showing her how to jimmy the lock on that one sticky drawer in her writing desk as a child. Tumblers. It was all about the tumblers, jiggling them about until they lifted properly...

Or the door just swinging open of its own, mystical accord.

Belle took two steps inside and found the stains on the floor. Footprints tracked all through the dust, likely the inspectors and things that had arrived to investigate the murder a few days ago, and someone had tried to wipe up most of the freshly spilt blood. They were largely unsuccessful and Belle's stomach turned at the rusty smudges...

"If _that_ makes you nervous, perhaps it would be best if you turned back now, milady."

Belle whirled around.

Standing by the open door was a tall, dark-skinned man with close-cropped black hair, twinkling eyes, and dressed in a crisp livery. He smiled not unkindly at Belle and bowed deeply at the waist.

"Elijah Merrin, milady. The late butler of Shadowhearst Manor, acquaintance of the late countess, at your service."

Oh goodness.

"Uhh...."

"Yes, I am a spirit, milady, though a harmless one," Merrin smiled wider. "I can answer the questions you're sure to have about spirits in a haunted mansion, and perhaps, you might tell me who you are in return."

Swallowing Belle hardly knew what to do other than nod woodenly and say: "I am Belle French, thank you. I, er, I'm Lady Huntsford's...granddaughter."

"Granddaughter?" Merrin blinked, frowning only slightly. "It's been forty-three years since...whatever happened to her daughter, then?"

"Mum died when I was a child, i-in Australia. I was raised by my great-grandmother. Mrs. Rose?"

Merrin nodded at that, looking satisfied. "Ah, I see. Thank you for answering, now, I suppose you are either here because you are a very curious sort, or because you wish to find the dagger, is that right, milady?"

Belle was beginning to wonder if this ghost read minds. "Yes, I seek the dagger."

The butler nodded again, but far less satisfied by her answer this time around. "Miss French, it is a long tale, but in interest of your saftey I shall relate it quickly. The dagger is in Lord Huntsford's study, where I do not know. The study is on the second floor, in the west wing. However, while I surmise you are a clever, brave sort, it would be far safer for you to leave now while the Darkness lies dormant and put this place behind you."

"You want me to leave you all to this horrid fate? I shall do no such thing! If it's in my power to help, then help I shall."

Merrin chuckled, the facade of polished butler fading. (Well he was a spirit, Belle supposed he had the right to relax.)

"You are, without a doubt, our lady's offspring," he said, bowing again. "Milady, you do, in fact, have the power to help us. But with great risk you should be made aware of," his tone turned grave, his eyes loosing their playfulness. "Though the foul blood of the Earl of Huntsford runs in your veins, you are immune to the evil of the dagger. I can see it in you, a light, a spark. But should the Darkness find you in this mansion, it will not hesitate to snuff our your light and strike you down where it finds you. The blood on the floor was that of a peddler who forced his way through the front door and was foolish enough not to heed my warnings."

Belle stepped further from the stains.

"If I should not heed your warnings, either, and were to find the dagger, what would I do with it then?"

"The evil is tied to Lord Huntsford's spirit. Until he is put to rest, by returning his spirit to his grave through the dagger, it clings to all of our souls, binding us to the property. The only soul it hasn't collected is Lady Huntsford's, and she is to clever to be captured. As long as her spirit resides in the grounds of the estate, outside the home, then the Darkness is contained. It slipped out, last night, when it is strongest, but returned shortly after in a fine rage. What happened?"

"I, er, I think my grandmother took temporary possession of my body. Can all spirits do that?"

Merrin shrugged, but that little smile returned. "Only the clever ones. And she is that. I haven't dissuaded you in the least, have I?"

"No. But thank you for your concern, Mr. Merrin," Belle found herself smiling. "And thank you for being kind to my grandmother."

"Only fools and beasts could have been unkind to Isobel Rose. But I shall stand here, and guard the door, if you intend to press on."

"You...you won't come with me?"

"It would be...unwise, to leave your exit unguarded," Merrin said slowly, casting a wary gaze around the foyer. "And I would caution you to hurry and find the dagger, though. The Darkness is always dormant during the day, but should you linger until dark, or rouse the entity, then I fear there is nothing you can do to protect yourself."

Belle swallowed, and then nodded. "Then I shall hurry."

Merrin grinned, then, giving her a final bow. "Godspeed, Lady Belle French."

Turning towards the grand, dim staircase, Belle stood on the first step. Then the second. When no ghosts or demons or goblins appeared to tear her limb from limb, Belle let out a breath and went ahead up the stairs as normally as she could. With the feeling of a hundred eyes on her in the shadows...

* * *

Gold rose late the next morning, his head in a fog until he navigated his way downstairs for breakfast. Or rather...lunch, as it was nearly noon. Neal poked his head in some time after Gold tucked in to his meal.

"Papa? Are you just waking up?"

"Mmhmm. I was up late last night, my, er, _business_ ran long. Ah, and we have three ladies as guests this morn-Er, afternoon, too. One of them, Miss French...fell ill, before our business was done and she had to come here to rest. Try not to cause too much trouble in the house today, alright?"

"Okay. We were planning on trying to behave anyway. Mrs. Lucas is in a funny mood, Ruby says it'd be wise not to poke the bear."

"Miss Lucas is indeed wise beyond her years."

As noon passed along, Mrs. Finch arrived. Just as they were leaving the dining room, Neal detailing the account of how he and his friends caught a rabbit in a snare, Miss Dunbroch came around the corner. At first Gold thought that she might enjoy this story, but the look on her face gave him pause.

"Miss Dunbroch? What's the matter?"

Looking around again, Miss Dunbroch sighed. "Have you seen Miss French this morning? I went to check on her but she's not in her room, and her clothes are gone. At first I thought that she might have gotten up early but she's nowhere to be found."

"How many ladies did you bring home, Papa?" Neal asked, and at another time Gold might have been embarrassed by his son's innocent question phrased so...indecently.

However...

Mrs. Finch pursed her lips. "Miss Dunbroch...I am not well acquainted with Miss French by any means, but she is a stubborn thing, isn't she?"

"Incredibly."

"Then, supposing our business last evening, would she be stubborn enough to walk herself to the manor this morning?"

Merida turned pale. "Ohhh...goodness gracious. She didn't!"

Gold wasn't well acquainted with Miss French either, but he was rather certain she _would_. He stood up and grabbed for his cane, tamping down his rising unease. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Miss Dunbroch, perhaps my son could escort you around the gardens. Miss French may have simply gone for a walk. I will arrange for someone to check the woods in case she's gotten lost."

"And if we don't find her there?"

"Why, then we shall quickly go to the police and storm the castle, won't we?"

Miss Dunbroch nodded as Neal came around the table and took her hand to lead her out. Mrs. Finch stood up, brushing down her skirts before fixing those cool blue eyes on Gold. "You know she isn't merely lost, don't you?"

"Yes but I'd rather my son and a hysterical companion out the way," he dismissed, limping out the room. "Have you any useful advice, then, Mrs. Finch?"

Mrs. Finch hummed, trailing behind him. "Perhaps you should spend less time demeaning my abilities and a bit more time dashing to the rescue of your ladies?" her eyes fell to his cane. "Or however quickly you can reach them."

Gold did not appreciate her sarcasm.

He did, however, appreciate her staying behind as he mounted the gelding Phillipe and setting off at a brisk pace through the woods. In a short time, the manor appeared on the hill, grim and silent as ever, the sky gray overhead, and Gold left the horse in the usual place near the garden. He walked 'round to the front door, but found it quite locked. After a moment's deliberation, and recalling the large glass doors at the side of the house leading onto a terrace, Gold headed there and checked the handles. Also locked.

Though, a quick strike of his cane had knocked a sizable hole in the fragile glass, large enough for him to reach inside and unlock the deadbolt. Well. The home was abandoned anyway, was it not?

"Stop!"

Gold turned to see Isobel Rose standing within arm's reach, her eyes wide and frightened. Now that he looked, Gold wondered why he hadn't noticed her clothes were more than a bit old-fashioned, they were quite outdated. The pattern of the deep gold fabric and the two-tiered skirt, the pinched waist, it was a style not worn by fine ladies since Gold was a very small boy, even younger than Neal. Not that he'd seen a lot of fair ladies riding in the slums, but his aunties were seamstresses.

"Lady Huntsford," he nodded coolly. "What is it you want?"

He wanted to take the words back immediately because her fair face crumbled.

"Don't call me that, please," she begged. "I have don't want to be a countess to you, Mr. Gold, I'm sorry things have gone all awry. I-I was so lonely here, can you possibly imagine being alone for nearly half a century, living in fear of what could happen if that evil shadow in the house escapes? When you and the children started playing in the garden I-I couldn't help it, I couldn't tell you I was a ghost, you'd think me mad! I just...I was so happy, it was the first time I've been happy in decades."

A sudden thought crossed Gold's mind. "My son was almost attacked by that shadow!"

She flinched. "I-I'm so sorry...I-I know I shouldn't have pretended b-but...but you were so, so wonderful. Neal, Emma, Ruby, and August, oh, his father's spirit was taken away years ago, could you imagine a child abandoned in this place for yeras, unable to move on? It was wrong, I know that! But I couldn't stop, can't you see that?"

Her small hands lighted on his arm, tugging him back. "Please, please don't go in there. I can't let you do that."

Gold wanted to pull away. He wanted to never let go.

"Belle French is in that house," he said, instead. "What did you do when you...were with her?"

Isobel's full lips pressed into a thin line. "I...I didn't mean to do anything, I didn't think I _did_. I've never possessed someone before. Maybe...maybe she saw something? The only...wait. Wait, the dagger is in the house. She is my granddaughter, isn't she? Then she's got Huntsford's blood in her veins! Like...like an inoculation, against the corrupting influence. Oh! Oh she can break the hold on the estate, don't you see!"

"Not quite."

Isobel's smile was luminescent, her cool hands holding Gold's face and all his anger and annoyance melted at her touch.

"The dagger is bound to Huntsford's spirit. If she takes the dagger to his grave, she can put him to rest and the Darkness loses its power!"

"C-could that really work?" Gold blinked. "You'd be free?"

"Everyone would be free! Me, August, the servants, even Huntsford. She's brilliant Gold, brilliant! Oh..." her smile faded a bit, looking up in fear at the house. "But...but she's still in danger. I-I don't know what goes on inside the house, how much of the Darkness is awake in the daylight hours."

Gold swallowed. "Then I must help her. I want you to be free of this curse. You deserve to be free, but I can't leave everything up to Miss French."

Isobel hesitated to let go of his arm. "Then...then you must promise to be careful. If the Darkness kills you, you'll be trapped. Either of you. Bound to the house like the servants murdered inside the home. But you must hurry. You must be outside before the sun sets."

Gold pulled out his watch, checking the time. It was past noon already. That was hours yet, until sunset, but lord knows time flies at the most inopportune moments.

"Then I shall endeavor to be quick about it."

Isobel nodded reluctantly. Gold hesitated, then, and he leaned forward to kiss her forehead.

"For luck," he grinned, being met with a tremulous smile in return.

The warmth of that smile stuck with him even as he entered the dark house and a cloud blotted out the sun overhead...

* * *

It was difficult to keep track of time in the mansion. Belle peeked out a window on the second floor and saw that it was very overcast, but the weak sun seemed to be high in the sky. It could have been past noon.

Shadowhearst looked large from the outside. But on the inside? It was larger than it looked, if that were at all possible. Belle only knew she was still on the second floor only by nature that she had neither climbed up or down anymore stairs. None of the doors were locked, so Belle stepped inside each one she came to that looked like it could have been a study. Her home back in Australia that seemed so large was about a forth smaller than Avonlea House. She imagined it would be quite easy to fit three of her homes inside Shadowhearst Manor. Or a small village.

And how many rooms really saw use when people lived here?

Belle stopped counting after the third room full of tables and chairs and lamps, covered with white dust sheets or no, and good lord was she even halfway through yet? No study. No study. A room with hideous wallpaper. A library from which all the books had been taken away, most tragic that. No study. No study...

"Miss! Miss!"

Belle frowned, looking back from the way she had come. A man was running towards her, and he wasn't dressed in a servant's clothing. In fact, his clothing was a very modern sort of suit, though cheap, his hair short and his face shaved clean, thick dark brows over dark eyes. Perhaps he'd slipped by Merrin...?

"Miss!" the man shouted. "Miss, please! Please help me! Something is terribly wrong! I don't know how long I've been here but I can't leave the house!"

A cold feeling washed over Belle before the man even came up and grabbed her arms, his eyes wild. His hands were freezing.

"How did you get in?" he demanded. "Tell me! Please! I need to escape, th-this place is terrifying!"

With a rippling of the air, suddenly a housemaid stood beside the man. She looked Oriental, with almond-shaped dark eyes and shiny black hair, and also looked quite annoyed as she slapped at the back of the man and pried him off of Belle.

"You _are_ ** _dead!_** " she said, stressing each syllable like she was talking to a simpleton. "Now stop haras-" her eyes widened at Belle. "My lady! Did the Darkness...no, wait...you are not Lady Huntsford."

Belle blinked, while the man screamed and started running down the hall until two burly footmen appeared, dragging him back into the ether. Well that was most strange. She was beginning to feel like poor Alice in Wonderland.

The ghostly maid tensed beside Belle. "That fool!" she hissed, taking hold of Belle's arm and dragging her into one of the rooms. The one with the hideous wallpaper. "Quickly! Hide! Hide!"

There was a rather large table, drapped with a sheet, and Belle was rather small. She crawled underneath it, aided by the maid that gave her a slight kick in the rear until she was all under, and then everything went quiet.

There was a small gap between the edge of the cloth and the floor. If Belle crouched down low on all fours, and lay her head on the ground and twisted her head a bit, she could just see out across the floor of the room. There was nothing, really, to see at first except a worm's eye view. Or perhaps a mouse's eye. And then the temperature plummeted...and Belle heard footsteps. Heavy, clunking footsteps, like a large man wearing boots.

It was not the hysterical ghost. Or the maid. Or Mr. Merrin. Belle squinted, squirming on the floor to try and get a better look. The boots stopped directly in front...of her.

Despite the rapidly growing panic, Belle found herself fascinated by those boots. They looked like black leather, but there was something like a thick, oily smoke swirling around them. The way a firefly glows, but rather than emitting light, the smoke seemed to emit...darkness.

**The Darkness.**


	11. Chapter 11

It seemed to stretch on for hours, but in reality, it only lasted for half a minute. Half a minute wherein Belle was certain she was going to die, that her heart was pounding so loud she was sure it heard. But then, the boots turned and walked out of Belle's impromptu peephole. The embodiment of the Darkness moved away from the table and the door creaked until it thudded shut. Belle did not move, could not move, in fact, she could scarcely breath.

The sheet lifted and she stifled a scream behind her hand.

The maid's angular eyes stared back at her.

"I must apologize," she said, offering a hand to help Belle crawl from under the table. "The Darkness is sensitive to the actions of Mr. Heller. He's...new."

"Th-the peddler?"

"Indeed."

The peddler. The murder victim found in the foyer, who's blood still smeared the floor. Well no wonder he was so...nervous, Belle could hardly think of how she would adjust to being a disembodied spirit. Though her sympathy was tempered with great annoyance that he had to run about screaming like a ninny when she was trying to save his soul.

Belle brushed down her skirts. It was one of her favorites...and was now quite dusty and wrinkled. Ah well, at least there was a good reason.

The maid studied her curiously. "You are a descendant of Lord and Lady Huntsford, are you not?"

"I...am, yes," Belle thought that, maybe, she might be getting used to talking to spirits that knew her grandmother. "How do you do, Belle French?"

Smiling a bit at her curtsy, the maid bobbed back politely. "Mulan, thank you Miss French. Now why would you be so foolish as to enter this house? The Darkness...ahhh..." she smiled coyly. "I see, you have come for the dagger."

"That was my intention, yes. I intend to break the evil's hold on this estate, if I can."

Mulan thought for a moment, eyeing her from head to toe in a manner that had Belle feeling much like a horse at auction.

"I believe you can. Who told you about the dagger?"

"Ah, th-that's a rather complicated story. My, er, grandmother, outside on the grounds sort of...borrowed my body, and I awoke with an impression of her history here. And Mr. Merrin, downstairs-"

Mulan held up her hand. She was quite solemn and serious, Belle felt that she might be the only maid Lord Huntsford couldn't have his way with. Not without losing a body part.

"Mr. Merrin sent you to the earl's study?" she queried, and when Belle nodded, she rolled her eyes. "He is a kind man and a wise butler, but not always the most clever of men. Come, I shall show you _exactly_ where the study is so you needn't wander about like a tourist."

She led the way out of the room and Belle was quick to follow, hurrying after the maid's brisk steps.

"Oh, th-thank you, I suppose I should have asked for directions on my way but, ah, I didn't see anyone. Where...where did those men take Mr. Heller?"

"It's...rather hard to explain. We can appear, and interact with things. But at the same time we are not of this plane, and can sort of...vanish. At least that is how I explain it."

"Like being trapped between this world, and the next, with a foot on either side?"

Mulan nodded, looking pleased. "Very aptly put, Miss French. Do you know what to do with the dagger when you find it?"

"Take it to the 4th earl's grave, and lay his spirit to rest...somehow."

A bit of a sheepish smile crossed the maid's face. "We know how to break the curse, just not the details. If I were you, I'd stab the earl through the skull to remind him that he is quite dead."

Belle made a face. "I certainly hope it doesn't come to that...I don't think I could dig up a coffin by myself before dark."

"I doubt it will, Miss French," Mulan assured with a half-smile, stopping in front of a door near the end of the hall. "I think the Darkness would _like_ the desecration of human remains. Here is the study. We spirits cannot enter, though not for lack of trying. You'll have to find the dagger on your own."

Belle opened the door and peeked inside. The curtain had fallen, letting the pale gray light in, and a half century's worth of dust blanketed everything. The focal point of the room would seem to be the stone fireplace...and the numerous mounted heads on the wall, of poor creatures that hadn't escaped the hunter and were humiliated in death for their misstep into the path of a bullet. Various deer, a bear, a wolf, fox, a wild boar. Belle wondered if their spirits wandered the halls too.

"Thank you," she peered over her shoulder. "But if I may ask a final question...where is the Darkness, now?"

Mulan pressed her lips into a thin line, her dark eyes darting around. "It's...difficult to tell, sometimes. Likely in the attic, I would think, where there's no light. I shall try and keep Mr. Heller preoccupied so he doesn't alert the Darkness again, but I suggest you hurry. You only have an hour and a half until the sun starts setting, assuming the weather holds."

"Right, right, ah, thank you," Belle smiled at her ghostly new acquaintance. "I appreciate your help."

The maid looked uncomfortable with praise, making a sort of shooing motion with her hand. "Just break the curse, Miss French, that would be thanks enough I should think."

She vanished and Belle slipped into the room, quietly shutting the door behind her. After a second of hesitation, Belle started at the writing desk, sifting through unimportant letters that would never recieve answers and peeking under the blotter and through every drawer. She made a methodical search, and came up empty. Though if she had been afraid of spiders, the one drawer with a veritable nest of spiders would have made her shriek.

Arachnids were the most interesting thing she could find on the desk beyond one cracked photograph that appeared to be the Earl of Huntsford's wedding picture. He was dressed very handsomely with his dark hair oiled backed, but Belle could see a hardness in his eyes even through the general somber tone all professional photographs seemed to carry. At the earl's side was a slip of a girl, looking just as Isobel had looked in the portrait at Avonlea House, dressed in a light-colored dress and bouquet in her hands, looking more frightened than somber with her wide eyes and pinched mouth.

The poor thing had every right to look that way, Belle thought soberly, putting the photograph back.

She heard footsteps, then. Uneven, odd footsteps. Belle picked up a pistol that had been mounted to the wall, an antique thing with a nice heft in her hand. She slid to the door, pressing against the wall so that as the door swung open she was shielded from view. The intruder stepped into the room, and without thinking twice if a ghost could be clubbed, Belle hopped forward and smashed the butt of the gun against a man's head.

A man's head with longish graying hair. A man with a cane that clattered to the floor when he slumped onto the ground. Mr. Gold. Belle had just clubbed Mr. Gold unconcious on the filthy hardwood floor.

Oh bother.

* * *

Gold had heard shouts ringing from somewhere above him. By dumb luck he found the stairs, and as he assumed the voices had come from the left, that was the direction he went. Hurrying along the musty smelling hall until he reached the end of the corridor, he found a door slightly ajar. _Hmm_. The study was lit by weak sunlight through the windows, and Gold walked in to find it vacant. Perhaps Miss French had already found the dag-

There was a sharp blow to the back of Gold's head, and suddenly everything went dark...

When Gold opened his eyes, his head was laying on something soft. And not very pleasant smelling, rather like clothes put in storage, he turned his head a bit and saw a beady-eyed beasts staring down at him. And then sneezed. And again. Goodness this was a dusty pillow!

"Mr. Gold? Oh! Oh thank goodness, I thought I had killed you," Miss French sighed, helping him upright. "Are you alright? D'you know where you are? Wait, why _are_ you here?"

"I was here to rescue you..." Gold blinked groggily up at her. God her eyes were so very blue...or was it just the blow to his head? "What did you hit me with?"

"A pistol, does it hurt?"

 _Yes._ "Nothing serious," he fibbed, stumbling to his feet. He decided to overlook dignity when the slip of a woman pulled him upright in her sturdy little arms. "Have you found the dagger yet?"

"No, not yet. We have to hurry, there isn't much time left if we're going to be finished before sunset. This thing grows stronger in the dark."

"The dark?" Gold squinted out the window. He had yet to become familiar with the weather patterns of Storybrooke, but those certainly looked like heavy, _dark_ rain clouds. "Are we sure it needs to be nighttime and not just terribly dim outside?"

Belle glanced outside and bit her lip.

"We should hurry."

Agreed. Gold hobbled to search over the empty shelves while Belle investigated the mantel. She peered inside a box that was empty, and a vase to be safe. Gold was prodding for a secret passage and came up empty. (One could never tell with old manors...) He moved to check inside a cigar box when there was a soft thump and a quiet _"ow"_   from behind him.

"Miss French?"

The lady in question was sprawled out on the floor, picking herself up. She had caught her foot on the edge of the rug, smiling sheepishly as she dusted down her poor abused walking dress. "I'm alright, just a bit of a tumbl-" she paused, getting back down on her hands and knees and squinting at something across the floor. "Hello, what's that there?"

She crawled over and Gold very gentlemanly looked away until she gave a triumphant little "Aha!" Looking back, Miss French sat there with an open wooden box on her lap, lined with velvet, and a dagger laying inside. Just the sight of it gave Gold the shivers, a silver, crooked blade and a black carved handle, and a ruby set in the pommel. Just as Mrs. Lucas described.

The cursed dagger.

Belle grinned up at him and snapped the lid shut. "Got it!" she hopped to her feet with the enviable ease of a young person, catching his free hand and tugging him along. "We found it! Come on, we have to return the dagger to Lord Huntsford's grave before it grows dark!"

Gold had never been so displeased to be correct about the weather; As though a higher power had heard Miss French, the weak light trickling in through the windows was swallowed by thick, heavy clouds and a low rumble of thunder. They had already been walking at a brisk pace but they went faster still, as fast as Gold could move without running, now hoping against hope that they still had the time to escape the mansion. And they were almost down the stairs when a chill ran up Gold's spine.

A spirit suddenly rippled to life in front of the doors, and Miss French dashed ahead, leaving Gold a few paces behind. "Mr. Merrin! Mr. Merrin we have it! Open the doors, please!"

The swarthy young man looked over their shoulders and his eyes widened. "Run-"

Gold felt a large hand grab the back of his coat and yank him off his feet.

* * *

When Belle sprinted down the last of the stairs, she saw Merrin appearing in front of the doors. She'd been certain they were in the final stretch of this maddening adventure when a look of horror crossed his face and that skittery feeling came over Belle's skin, leaving goosebumps from head to toe. She whirled around just in time to see the Darkness-which was what it had to be, a towering figure swirling with oily smoke to obscure all but the silhouette of a powerful man,-grabbing the back of Mr. Gold's coat and hauling him backwards.

The dagger rattled in the box, but Belle hugged it to her chest, trying desperately not to drop it. If she did, she had a terribly suspicion the Darkness would use it to kill Mr. Gold and trap his soul in the house. But she could hardly leave him! Now with the Darkness wrapping a heavy hand around his neck and slamming him against the railing, bending Gold over backwards as he began to choke the life out the poor man.

Fortunately, not all the spirits in Shadowhearst Manor were malevolent ones.

Mulan appeared, then, launching herself at the shadowy figure from the top of the stairs. The maid leapt onto the Darkness and battered away with her fists until the entity released it's victim to try and pry her off of itself. The entire tableau was unexpected enough that it gave Belle the spark needed to dash forward and grab Mr. Gold's cane, and catch him under the arm to tug him away.

Mr. Gold stumbled and wheezed, gripping at his bruised throat, but otherwise unharmed. He groped for his cane and then once he had it, managed to quicken his pace to match Belle's. Merrin hurried up and helped haul Mr. Gold along, but not towards the doors.

"Come this way, I'll take you through a shortcut!"

"But what about Mulan-"

"Oh don't worry about her," Merrin grinned as they hurried along through the corridors. "Mulan is a fierce thing, she was the only maid to put up a decent struggle with Lord Huntsford finally went mad. Nearly bashed his skull in with a candlestick before he caught her throat with the dagger. Did you find it?"

"Right here in this box. I thought the Darkness only came out at night."

"The storm must have made it dark enough that it feels secure," Merrin theorized. "It's imperative you hurry to the cemetary. Lady Huntsford might be able to help you outside, but for heaven's sake, don't stop running!"

"I should never have come to your rescue," Gold puffed, and if they survived, Belle must remember to tell him he was rather gallant to come to her aid even if he'd been thwarted by a bad leg in their escape. "I should have sent Miss Dunbroch and Mrs. Finch. Between the pair of them they'd have dragged the Darkness back to hell by its ear!"

(She could not disagree with that.)

They burst into a large room with open glass doors leading onto a terrace. One of doors was smashed. Merrin raised a brow but said very little. (Belle suspected this was Mr. Gold's entrance, even though he, also, said nothing.) The butler stopped before he could cross the threshold at the very last moment. "I can go no further, we're trapped in the house," he stated. "Hurry, I'll hold off the Darkness for as long as I can."

"Th-thank you," Belle stammered. "We'll go as fast as we can."

Gold nodded, saving his breath.

Merrin just grinned and closed the terrace doors.

Rain had started falling in fat, heavy drops, pouring from the heavens. The thick grass and weeds seemed to tangle around their ankles as they sped around the back of the house past the gardens. Mr. Gold tried to take them towards a chestnut gelding that had started stomping and whinnying, tugging at where it was tied to a low branch. Belle saw the wisdom in that, because on a horse, they would be unhindered by his limp. It was a good plan.

Except for the shattering of the terrace doors behind them.

The horse whinnied in a fright and snapped the reins, bolting into the woods. Belle and Gold turned around, seeing a black liquid shape bursting through the glass like an explosion. It swirled into the hazy shape of a man began streaming through the air towards them. Belle felt Mr. Gold push her forwards and she nearly dropped the box which still rattled, as if the dagger longed to be free and cut across their throats.

"What are you doing? We have to run!" she cried.

"Go."

"What?!"

"Go!" Mr. Gold barked. "I can't run and you have to take the dagger to the earl's grave, so run ahead! Go!"

"I am not leaving you-"

"Well if you don't, neither of us will be leaving this estate until doomsday!"

Belle swallowed. He was right. She hated it, but he was right. All she could do was return the dagger to the grave, and he couldn't flee any faster on his bad leg. And she was still loathe to abandon him.

And she still had no choice; So she ran as fast as her legs could carry her and prayed that she made it to the cemetary before Mr. Gold's spirit had to be freed too.

She tripped only once, and when she did, the dagger tumbled out of the box. She was quick to snatch it up, however. It felt _disgusting_ in her hand, not texturally, but simply because the feeling in her gut that one may get from holding a snake twisted unpleasantly inside of her, skittering up her arm. Belle stuck it into her purse. And took a moment to marvel that she still had her purse, which had been looped around her wrist.

And then she ran again, heedless to the grass stains on her knees. No one griped or complained about filth in the heat of battle or in the midst of a hunt in her books, so neither would she. Especially when there was more at stake than a soiled garment.

Belle saw the outline of the wrought iron fence and nearly cheered, trying to run faster still. The ground was turning into mud now, the heels of her boots sinking into the softened earth. Rain streaked down the faces of the statues like tears, the grave markers around her turning into blurs of white and gray stones as she sped forward to the burial site of the 4th earl.

She felt the chill race up her spine and knew something had gone terribly wrong.

Belle turned her head as she fled, seeing a shadow speeding through the curtain of rain behind her. Her heart stopped, thinking of Mr. Gold. Of the carefree little son who's biggest worry yesterday had been not getting caught by the cook stealing tea cakes. She turned around, seeing that final row of final resting places when she tripped and yelped a curse.

She landed on her belly, her teeth clacking together when her jaw slammed the ground, a tang of blood filling her mouth. She couldn't breathe, everything hurt. And a cold hand wrapped around her ankle, dragging her backwards.

It was survival instinct, Belle would later claim, to grab the wooden box and toss it as far she she could to the left over a row of graves. The Darkness released her leg and shot after the box, eager to grab the cursed blade.

Belle stumbled to her feet, nearly slipping in the mud face-first. The only thing that mattered was getting the dagger to the grave. The curse would break, the Darkness banished, and she would survive. She wouldn't know what she'd do after that, but she would survive first. Only...where did she put the dagger? On the ground? On the stone?

She came to a halt standing an arm's length from the grave marker, only for a second.

That was all it took for the Darkness to catch her again.

It bore her to the ground, nearly bashing Belle's face into the stone. She curled her hand tighter around the hilt of the dagger as it began clawing at her legs, trying to pull her away from the grave. Belle tried to grasp onto the wet grass with her free hand but the entity behind her was too strong. Out of desperation-and with a flash in inspiration from something Mulan had said,-she stabbed the blade directly into the earth above the grave.

The Darkness pulled her no further.

The ruby at the end of the handle flashed, and a blinding light and gush of air filled the cemetery. Belle turned her head and shut her eyes until the hot burst of wind died away. She saw a man kneeling on the ground behind her, a large man in a red hunting jacket with slick dark hair. Lord Huntsford. He met shocked eyes with Belle before vanishing, leaving Belle alone on the ground in the rain.

The Curse of Shadowhearst Manor had lifted.


	12. Chapter 12

Gold hadn't a plan beyond "do something to stop the Darkness" and began regretting his rash display of gallantry the moment Miss French began running without him. Of course it was important she break this curse, but...what in gods name was he to do now?

Without the dagger, apparently, the Darkness enjoyed strangulation. It tackled Gold, locking strong hands around his neck, pressing him into the tall, wet grass and throttling him into the ground. Through increasingly blurred vision, he could see the indistinct face of the Darkness, possibly laid over the features of the earl, and Gold was certain his last thoughts as he faded into darkness were going to be that he hadn't gotten a chance to say goodbye to his son...

He was sure that the light he saw through the spots swimming in his vision was the light of heaven. But then the hands locked around his throat let up, and Gold went limp. By the time he was coherent once more, he felt cold little hands patting his wet face through the rain pattering his skin.

"Mr. Gold? Mr. Gold? Darling, darling wake up, please," Isobel's voice begged. "Please, please say something, anything!"

"Am I dead?" Gold slurred, his voice weak and accent thick, a very poor combination when one wanted to be understood outside of Scotland.

"What was that?" Isobel's face appeared above him.

"Am...am I....dead?"

He was scooped upright and found himself with his arms full of Isobel. She held him so tightly it was hard to recall why it would be a bad thing if he _had_ died, and Gold let his face rest against her soft hair. She was dry, despite the rain. Hmm...

"Oh! Oh thank god, I thought-Oh darling!" Isobel pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, cool and soft. "You're alive, you're very much alive, darling, it's going to be alright."

Gold nodded woodenly until he recalled the other brave little heroine in this tale.

He stumbled to his feet and nearly pitched back into the grass before Isobel caught him. "Careful! Careful, slowly now-"

"What about Miss French? Where is she?" he stumbled, trying to find the direction of the cemetery. The rain was coming down so hard it was difficult to tell which way was which.

Not ten seconds after he asked that, there a bright light and a warm breeze cut through the rain. Isobel shivered beside him, and a brilliant smile lit up her face. She seemed to glow, lit from within, and suddenly she was laughing, throwing her head back.

"She did it, Mr. Gold! She's broken the curse!"

Gold swallowed, swaying on his feet. He needed his cane, he needed to let go of Isobel to find it. The curse was broken and Isobel was free, he didn't want to let go of her.

Isobel bit her lip then, looking up at him. He...he needed to let her go. She'd been dead longer than he'd been alive, and she'd been a prisoner far longer. If anyone deserved heaven, it was Isobel Rose.

And she always would be Isobel Rose to him, even if she was not of this world, his lovely neighbor, his love.

"Roderick."

"Pardon?" Isobel blinked, the smile still shining on her dear face.

"My name is Roderick," he smiled back, cupping her cheek. "I am not sure what happens to us next, darling, but I fear this is the end of our tale."

He hated that the lovely smile melted away. But she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him, then.

"Roderick," she whispered. "Roderick, oh, how I wish that weren't true. You're a dear, sweet man, and I would have loved nothing more than to have met you before. Thank you."

"I've done nothing to break your curse."

"True. But you, and your son, and his friends, you've all been wonderful. You showed me love, whether my heart beats or not, and that is almost as precious to me."

Gold swallowed thickly. The droplets running down his face now were hot and salty.

"I love y-"

Isobel kissed him again, softly.

"I know," she giggled. "I can see it in your eyes whenever you look at me. I feel the same."

Gold nodded. Those three little words had clogged up his throat, it would seem. Looking up at the house, soft white balls of light began floating out of the windows into the sky until they faded out of sight. It was beautiful, ethereal. Something no one would ever believe without seeing for themselves.

"Oh...goodness..."

Miss French was walking up to them. The rain had begun to lighten to a sparse drizzle, though Gold's clothes were utterly sodden. He wondered which of them looked worse, he or Miss French. She looked as if she'd taken a tumble through mud, her hair tangled with grass, falling in loose strands around her dirty face. She was carrying the dagger, the ruby having turned oddly pale, more like a diamond. Her gaze was focused on the strange sight of the spirits leaving Shadowhearst Manor before falling upon the one in front of her.

"Um...hello, Grandmother."

Isobel bit her lip, trying to keep from giggling, Gold knew.

"Oh my word, this is stranger than I thought."

Miss French wasn't so successful, giving off a nervous little laugh behind her hand. "It is, yes."

Isobel stepped forward then and hugged Miss French, and it was almost as strange a picture as spirit orbs floating out windows. Perfect reflections of each other, similar and different.

"Thank you for saving us," Isobel murmured. "You were magnificent, my girl. I'm so proud of you."

"Th-thank you...you're..." Miss French swallowed. "You were amazing, too. I would never have been born if you hadn't saved my mother."

"How is my daughter?"

"She...I think she's waiting for you. She had a happy life, before the fever though. Your mother raised us, in turn. She had a good marriage."

Isobel nodded, tucking a tangled lock of Belle's hair behind her ear. "That's what I feared for when I had a girl. Good. Good. And Mother?"

Miss French gave a teary smile. "Give them both my love, please."

Gold looked away, retreiving his cane. He felt as if he were intruding on a private moment, but there was hardly anywhere else to go.

"I will," Isobel promised, gently extracting the dagger from Miss French's hands. "I shall take this, too. It doesn't belong in this world, not with such an evil always lurking around it. I wouldn't wish this fate on anyone."

She smiled sweetly at Gold. "Thank you. Both of you. I hope you'll both have long, happy lives before I see you again."

Her form began to shimmer silvery-white, as she stepped away from them. It as as if she were walking up a staircase, then, lifting into the sky with the other spirits. Her human shape began to shrink into a circular orb, too, the dagger vanishing with, and Gold watched her go until he lost sight over her. It felt like his heart was pressing against his chest, trying to follow.

"Spirits. Curses. Haunted houses," Miss French sighed beside him, drawing his attention away from the dark sky. The drizzling clouds had parted in places, letting a sliver of stars peek through. "I hadn't expected all of this when I stepped onto the British Isles."

"What were you expecting?" he asked quietly. With the rain fading, it felt too quiet for him to speak. Like shouting in a church.

Miss French shrugged then. "I'm not sure, really. A pretty countryside, a nice old house my great-grandmother used to live in. I supposed I got more than I bargained for, but I can't say I that I mind too terribly."

"No?"

"No. I wanted a bit of an adventure," and then came a devil-may-care grin that made him laugh. "And I most certainly found it!"

* * *

Papa returned filthy and soaking wet about half an hour after the rain stopped and Phillipe was found loose in the woods. Neal was certain Miss Dunbroch was about to hop on to Phillipe and ride over to Shadowhearst Manor herself. She was certain that was where her friend and Papa had gone, but Neal wasn't sure why.

After they had washed and dressed in clean clothes, (Miss French was wearing one of Ella's dresses pinned up at the hem, while her clothes dried although the maids said they were utterly ruined,) Papa had come down to the kitchens to see Mrs. Lucas, Ruby said the next day. She couldn't hear what was said but Mrs. Lucas said thank you and started crying once he left, leaving Ruby utterly unsure of what to do until her grandmother promised they were happy tears.

Miss French looked like Miss Rose, only she wore different clothes and she sounded different. She said she was born in Australia, and used to have family in Shadowhearst Manor, and here in Avonlea House, she said. She told them the whole story the next day, sitting in the gardens behind Avonlea House among the roses. How a girl named Isobel Rose had gotten married to a nasty earl, and a footman brought a cursed dagger into the house that drove the earl mad under its influence and killed the servants. Isobel had fled Lord Huntsford and leapt out a window, clutching her newborn daughter, who survived the massacre unharmed.

Emma had asked if Miss Rose was a ghost. Papa looked sort of far away, and Miss French just smiled.

"Not anymore."

Miss French was not Miss Rose. Her stories were different, and when they were the same tales, she told them differently. She told them about the funny animals in Australia like kangaroos and koalas, and that the spiders there were big and deadly, some large enough to spin webs and catch small birds for supper! (Ruby and Emma took a shine to her friend, Miss Dunbroch, too, who showed them how to make a much better snare.) Miss French was different, but...good different. She and Miss Dunbroch brought their things from the Benbow Inn in the village and stayed for two weeks with them. And while Neal missed Miss Rose, he thought Miss French was perfectly lovely too.

Papa seemed to like Miss French too. Not as much as he had Miss Rose, though, but he did really seem fond of Miss French. They spent a bit of time curled up in the library together, but hadn't gone for the long walks or laughed together. Ruby said they might fall in love someday.

Neal wouldn't mind having Miss French for a stepmother. She was too nice to be a wicked stepmother.

And when they left to return to Miss Dunbroch's home in Scotland, so that Miss French could return to Australia, Neal thought that his Papa missed her a bit, too. He had seemed sort of sad since Miss Rose was gone. But he smiled one morning after receiving the mail, and Neal later figured out that he'd gotten his first letter from Miss French. They'd written back and forth to each other since then and it made Neal wonder if he really would have a stepmother some day.

* * *

Shadowhearst Manor had burned down within a month of their adventure. Mr. Gold had written that lightning had struck the roof and burned it to the ground overnight. The mansion had never brought anyone any happiness, and Belle wasn't sad to hear it had quite literally gone up in smoke.

While Belle was quite content returning to her mining operation, the business her great-grandparents had built with their bare hands, she found herself impatiently waiting on each new letter from Mr. Gold. She had grown rather fond of him during her stay in Avonlea House, though she was sure whatever feelings he'd had for her were confused through her resemblance to the spirit he'd fallen in love with. And, as she reminded herself frequently, they had responsibilities to business that meant they couldn't just pull up stakes and move. They could be friends.

However, at Christmas, she had gone to Avonlea House for another visit and had to confess, to herself, and only herself, that somewhere between summer and then, between the first letter and the one inviting her to come for the holidays, that she had fallen in love with Mr. Gold. It was rather impossible not to, really. He was clever with an acerbic wit, polite and kind, an admirable father, and a rather handsome gentleman.

She envied, now, that her grandmother had kissed him using her lips and she couldn't even remember it.

Merida, with whom Belle had maintained a steady correspondence as well, (though _her_ heart remain unsnared by a suitor,) said the man would be mad not to love her for herself. And Belle tried to cling to that advice when she arrived. If Mr. Gold could not love her as _Belle French_ rather than Isobel Rose's granddaughter and mirror-image...

Well that didn't bear thinking about, as he smiled shyly in a quiet moment they'd had in the library to themselves and said: "You know...when we first met, I thought you were Isobel."

"Oh?"

"Indeed. Although at the time we were strangers. Now, I can hardly imagine mistaking you for anyone but Miss Belle French."

He had a lovely smile that made his chocolate brown eyes melt, and the angles of his face soften. It warmed her from head to toe, and she reached for his hand with a smile of her own.

"And I could hardly remain unflattered by such praise."

If it was improper to kiss such a lovely smile, of her own volition for her own wishes, then Belle was a very improper lady because that was precisely what she did. Twice over the course of her visit.

They worked out a way for them to maintain their separate businesses while living in the same place, which meant spending a bit of time in Australia each year as Belle wanted to live in Avonlea House with Roderick. (The first time she used his name, she thought he would devour her through the kiss he'd pressed against her lips.) It would take a bit of work, but it could be done. Roderick (and she adored saying his name as much as he enjoyed hearing it,) had told her how to hire managers that had the company's best interests in mind, as he'd done for his textile mills, but otherwise didn't try to take over anything like she'd always feared a husband would.

But, married they were in the spring. A quiet affair in the village church, with little more than the Avonlea House staff, (who Roderick said were quite taken with her,) Neal, Merida and her family that were on their best behavior until the reception at Avonlea House, (which was all Mrs. Dunbroch required from her three boys,) and the Locksleys and Mrs. Finch.

Regina and Mister Robin Locksley had eloped and caused quite the scandal, mostly through Mrs. Mills outrage. Mrs. Finch had reportedly been to both weddings, (dressed in purple, naturally, though less black for the occasion,) with a contented little smile not unlike a cat who'd gotten the cream.

It made Belle wonder exactly what sort of powers, or clairvoyance, Mrs. Finch possessed, but Belle did not need powers to know that she and Roderick Gold had a new, interesting adventure ahead of them, moving into the new age of the twentieth century...leaving the ghosts of the mysterious incident of Shadowhearst Manor behind them.

* * *

_H. Cassidy's first book hit shelves in 1922._

_It had been about the carefree spring of three children on an estate in the English countryside. The second, in 1924 had been the tale of a repressed young woman who broke away from her mother's control to find her own happiness with a kind widower and his little son. The third book that had come out last year in 1927 had been a solid success, although detractors accused Cassidy of mirroring Austen._

_That book had revolved around a woman who used to have a relationship with a young man but because of a misunderstanding had hardened her heart against him, and became torn between the former suitor that made her feel safe and the dashing new gentleman that she was told was everything she needed. People who bothered to read the book could see it bore little in common with any of Jane Austen's books other than a woman and two suitors. The author himself had to get specific permission from his mother to publish the courtship process of his parents, which had been complicated by a suitor that had his mother so convinced she needed him to be happy that she'd almost thrown away everything she was just to please him._

_The public thought H. Cassidy had created the work on his own, but people familiar with Henry Gold and his family could tell he'd drawn heavily from his rich family history. The first book was inspired by stories of how his father, Neal Gold, had spent his first year at Avonlea House when he was ten. The second book was based on stories about Regina and Robin Locksley's courtship, who were close family friends that had eloped. The Locksleys weren't offended by Henry's adaptation of their romance, but Henry knew that the subject matter of When Heads Met Hearts was touchy for his mother, so he'd made sure to show her his initial drafts, which she approved of before he started fine-tuning it._

_This fourth book had been based entirely off of the bizarre story of how his grandparents met, (or rather...how his grandfather met his second wife, Belle French,) and the most famous ghost story within a hundred miles of Storybrooke. It was the darker elements that had made his publisher skittish though, and he'd tried to convince Henry to "tone it down", but through sheer stubbornness, nothing was altered from Henry's final manuscript._

_He had shown that same manuscript to his grandfather, Roderick Gold, the last time he'd seen him before Grandfather's death a few months back. (Grandma Belle had passed away within three days, a stroke the doctor said, which the family had thought for the best because they couldn't imagine them living without each other.) He'd looked through it with Grandma, and when they had finished, they'd nodded._

"It's perfect."

_Readers agreed, and The Mysterious Incident of Shadowhearst Manor became quite popular. So popular, perhaps, that the spring and summer of 1891 that Henry's grandparents once thought was behind them, had in fact, become quite unforgettable..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gooooood I thought I was never going to finish this! Thank you to Maplesyrup for listening to me whine about how f'ing long this thing ran, because apparently my muse would NOT be denied...at least here. Thanks for reading!


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